"Margie's rheumatism isn't any worse than Ann Grafton's stiff knee or Sam's lame back," replied Stewart, swinging one foot against the side of the chair. "Mother always has been at the mercy of the tenants."
How was he to begin, he wondered.
He mechanically commenced to pull off his gloves.
"See here, John—" he glanced up quickly at Trevelyan's father sitting in a black walnut chair carved a hundred years ago, his face shining out weather-beaten and grim from the dark background, and his voice more decided than Stewart had ever heard it—"Why did Robert leave the army?"
A glove dropped and lay at Stewart's feet unnoticed. He moved restlessly.
"Why shouldn't he? He had served his sub-lieutenancy. He got his commission—"
"To resign it. Exactly! Why?"
"He never liked the Army, sir; it was always the Navy with him from the first—"
"Is he with the Navy now?" The old officer tapped the floor impatiently with his heavy stick. "Why is he in India doing an orderly's work instead of in the line?"
"Did you ever know Robert to stick to anything very long, sir?"