“Medlington,” she said, “Sir Edward Medlington.”
He said nothing. He was as reticent as she was, but both their eyes spoke. I saw there was something underneath his interest.
He drank his tea, ate an English muffin, drew some papers from his pocket, and talked over some business with her about Neighbourhood Hall; then he took up his hat. Before he said good-bye, he went over and stood silently before the big picture.
Mrs. Waverlee began to speak. She had become very friendly with him and his wife, and she did not wish to appear ungracious. Then I think underneath it all, was a feminine desire to know why he was interested in this picture.
“My father was in the army,” she said, “as a young man. During an Egyptian campaign, he lost a leg. A change came over him during hospital life, and he left the army and entered the church.”
Mr. Bonstone looked spellbound, and murmured something about noticing that the tall man in the painting, holding the little boy by the hand, had on clerical dress.
“My mother died when I was a baby,” Mrs. Waverlee continued, “and my father brought me up, and has always been very, very dear to me. I expect him here shortly to visit me.”
“Your father was not an only son, was he?” asked Mr. Bonstone.
“No, he had a younger brother who came to America.”