“Can’t people write?” said Andrew hastily; and he looked slightly confused. “I did learn how to read and write,” he added, with a forced laugh.
Frank was silent for a few moments.
“I say,” he said at last, “doesn’t it seem strange that we should be both like this—each with his father obliged to keep abroad?”
“Very,” said Andrew drily, and he glanced sidewise at his companion; but Frank was thinking with his brow all in lines, till they came round opposite to the house overlooking the Park, where he stopped to gaze up at the windows.
“Poor old place looks dismal,” said Andrew, “with its shutters to and blinds drawn-down. I wonder your mother doesn’t let it.”
“What, our house?” cried Frank, flushing. “Oh, they wouldn’t do that.”
“Seems a pity for such a nice place to be empty. But there is some one in it of course?”
“Only our old housekeeper and a maid. Come along; it makes me feel miserable to look at the place.”
“But doesn’t your mother go there now?”
“No; she has not been since—since—”