‘It was a very pretty picture he drew—I wonder if you ever rode the colts bareback?’
‘My mother was brought up on a Southern plantation; I, in a New York house and a Paris convent—there weren’t any colts to ride.’
‘And your mother died when you were a little girl?’
‘When I was twelve.’
‘Ah, that was hard,’ he said, with quick sympathy.
She glanced up in half surprise. It was the first time she had ever heard him say anything so kindly.
‘And the convent in Paris?’ he asked. ‘How did that happen?’
‘Some one suggested it to my father, and I suppose it struck him as an excellent way to dispose of me. Not that he isn’t an appreciative parent,’ she added quickly, in response to an expression on his face; ‘but the education of a daughter is a problem to a business man.’
‘I should think it might be,’ he agreed. ‘And how did the convent go?’
‘Not very well. I didn’t learn anything but prayers and French, and I was dreadfully homesick.’