"Not directly, anyhow. From down state—from Freeford, I think he said.
I judge that there's quite a family of them."
"Quite a family of them," he repeated inwardly. A drawback indeed. Why could an interesting young organism so seldom be detached from its milieu and enjoyed in isolation? Prosy parents; tiresome, detrimental brothers … He wondered if she had any idea what they were all like. It might be just as well, however, not to know.
"And, judging from the family name, and from their taste at christenings, I should say there might be some slant toward England itself. A nomenclature not without distinction. 'Bertram'; rather nice, eh? And there is a sister who teaches in one of the schools, I understand; and her name is Rosalind, or Rosalys. Think of that! I gather that the father is in some business," she concluded.
"Well, well," thought Randolph; "more than one touch of gentility, of fine feeling." If the father was in "some business," most likely it was some one else's business.
"He sings," said Medora, further. "Entertained us the other Sunday afternoon. Cool and correct, but pleasant. No warmth, no passion. No special interest in any of my poor girls. I didn't feel that he was drawing any of them too near the danger-line."
"Mighty gratifying, that. Where does one learn to sing without provoking danger?"
"In a church choir, of course. He sang last year in the cathedral at
Winnebago."
"Oh, in Wisconsin. And what took us to Winnebago, I wonder?"
"We were teaching in a college there."
"I see."