Caryl, his father said, was happier than he had ever been before.
“You fill just that place to him,” said Sir Robert enthusiastically, one evening, “that I had always hoped would be filled by my niece Minnie. But of course you don’t know her, so you don’t understand.”
Rhoda remained silent. She did know Minnie, and she knew, too, how hopeless it would have been to expect quiet sympathy from that young lady, if she had fulfilled her childish promise and grown up the mischievous torment she seemed to be inclined to develop into.
It seemed almost tragic to Rhoda that, while speaking thus of his niece, he left out all mention of his wife, who would have seemed to be the boy’s natural companion.
“You’ll be very, very glad to see mama again, won’t you, Caryl?” Rhoda asked that evening, when he had been put to bed and she was bending over him to bid him good-night.
“It doesn’t make so much difference to me whether she’s here or not,” replied the child, in the quaint, old-fashioned way children have who see few playfellows or companions of their own age.
Perhaps Rhoda looked rather shocked. So the boy added:
“Mama is not like you. She likes to be out in her motor-car all day, or playing tennis or dancing. She isn’t quiet, like you.”
“She will have brought you something pretty, I expect,” suggested Rhoda.
“Oh, yes, but she never brings the things that I like,” complained Caryl. “What I want is a book full of pictures of hunting. I know she won’t bring me that.”