“Yes, and he ain’t coming back.”
“What’s he going to do?” she asked in a bitter voice.
“Join Belloc—fight his own father—try to do me in the race,” growled the old man.
“Who told you that?”
“Junia, she told me.”
“What does she know about it? Who told her that?” asked the woman with faded lips.
“She always had sense, that child. I wish she was a man.”
He suddenly ground his heel, and there was distemper in face and voice; his shoulders hunched; his hands were thrust down in his pockets. He wheeled on her. “Where’s your other boy? Where’s Carnac?”
The woman pointed to the lawn. “He’s catching a bit of the city from the hill just beyond the pear-tree.”
“Painting, eh? I heard he was here. I want to talk to him.”