“A great many.”
The girl looked a quick question, half smiling, and he answered it pleasantly:
“Myself among them, of course! But Sylvia can look much higher than a painter of mediocre pictures.”
“I don’t believe they’re mediocre!” Gabrielle said, stoutly.
“I’ve some at Keyport, most of them are in New York, some on their way now to an exhibition in Washington,” David said. “When I come back you must see them, Gay!”
“When you come back——?” Her walk halted.
“I’m off for New York and then Washington this morning.”
“Oh.” It was not a question, not an exclamation. She pronounced the little monosyllable quietly, resumed her walking. “I like my little old name!” she presently said, with a glancing smile. And then, with sudden interest, as they came closer to the house: “David, tell me—who lives in that wing—up there, on the third floor?”
“Nobody, now. Those are old servants’ rooms; but the servants are on the other side now—Aunt Flora has only five or six. Hedda’s cousin is the cook, an old Belgian woman who’s been here—well, she must have been here several years before you went abroad?”
“Trude?”