He nodded cheerfully, indicating a great faith in his own judgment on the matter under discussion.
“I am afraid,” he said, “that I have not a photograph. That would be the correct thing, would it not? I ought to have one always with me in a locket round my neck, or somewhere. A curiously-wrought locket is the correct thing, I believe. People in books usually carry something of that description—and it is always curiously wrought. I don't know where they buy them.”
“I think they are usually inherited,” suggested Jocelyn.
“I suppose they are,” he went on in the same semi-serious tone. “And then I ought to have it always ready to clasp in my dying hand, where Joseph would find it and wipe away a furtive tear as he buried me. It is a pity. I am afraid I inherited nothing from my ancestors except a very practical mind.”
“I should have liked very much to see a photograph of Miss Chyne,” said Jocelyn, who had, apparently, not been listening.
“I hope some day you will see herself, at home in England. For you have no abiding city here.”
“Only a few more years now. Has she—are her parents living?”
“No, they are both dead. Indian people they were. Indian people have a tragic way of dying young. Millicent lives with her aunt, Lady Cantourne. And Lady Cantourne ought to have married my respected father.”
“Why did she not do so?”
He shrugged his shoulders—paused—sat up and flicked a large moth off the arm of his chair. Then,