Mr. Randolph fumbled at his hat, “More or less.”
“Were any other members of her family—similarly afflicted?”
“Her father and mother were well-conducted people. I know nothing of any further antecedents.”
“It sometimes skips a generation,” said Thorpe, musingly.
Mr. Randolph brought his hand close above his eyes, and pressed his lips together. He opened his mouth twice, as if to speak, before he articulated, “Sometimes, not always.”
Thorpe rose abruptly and walked to the window, then returned, and stood before Mr. Randolph.
“And Nina?” he demanded, peremptorily. “What of her?”
Mr. Randolph pressed his hand convulsively against his face.
Thorpe turned white; his knees shook. He went out and returned with some brandy. “Here,” he said. “Let us drink this and brace up and have it out. We are not children.”