'Who's Broster?' I asked at length.
'He used to be tutor to'—she turned me round and pointed—'to that.'
I had seen a picture standing on one of the chairs when I entered the room but had taken no particular notice of it. I now gave it a closer glance. It was a portrait, very crudely done, of a singularly repulsive child of about ten or eleven years old.
Was he, poor chap! Well, we all have our troubles, don't we! Who is this young thug! Not a friend of yours, I hope?'
'That is Ogden, Mrs Ford's son. It's a tragedy—'
'Perhaps it doesn't do him justice. Does he really squint like that, or is it just the artist's imagination?'
'Don't make fun of it. It's the loss of that boy that is breaking
Nesta's heart.'
I was shocked.
'Is he dead? I'm awfully sorry. I wouldn't for the world—'
'No, no. He is alive and well. But he is dead to her. The court gave him into the custody of his father.'