“Twenty-four,” answered John. “I understood from Corliss that your mother is somewhat of an invalid.”
“Yes, she’s never been right well since I can remember. And since father died she has been a good deal worse, I fear.”
“I can understand that,” answered John. “And of course the care of such a big place as—Elaine, is it?—must be hard on her.”
“Well, she doesn’t have much to do with it. Margey has always looked after things ever since she was big enough. She’s got lots of sense, has Margey. And then there’s the overseer; he’s been with us for about twenty years, I reckon.”
“I see.” John felt something cold against his hand and looked down to find the setter beside him. “Hello, what’s your name?”
“Her name’s Tudor Maid,” answered Phillip. “She’s out of Valley Maid by Tudor Prince, and one of the finest bird dogs in Virginia. She’s getting pretty old, though, now; she’s eleven. I just couldn’t bear to give her up and so I brought her along with me. She’s having a mighty dull time of it, though, I reckon; aren’t you, girl? I take her out for walks whenever I can, but somehow I don’t seem to be able to find much time for walking.”
“Well, what do you say to taking a tramp now?” asked John. “It’s a fine afternoon and I usually try to get out on Sunday; and it’ll give the dog a run.”
“I should like to go very much,” answered Phillip eagerly. “That is, if—if you weren’t going with some one else?”
“No, I thought perhaps I could entice you along. Get your cap.” He arose and, while Phillip was putting on his coat and finding hat and gloves, strolled over to the mantel. Above it was a nice arrangement of spurs, crops, whips and bridles centering about a really good hunting picture. But John wasn’t looking for such things; instead he examined attentively the long row of photographs that lined the wall beneath and which he had noticed from his chair. There were two portraits of a middle-aged gentleman whom John surmised to be the Phillip Ryerson who had fought in the duel; another of the same person, taken at an earlier age, in the dress of a Southern captain of cavalry; a portrait of a sweet-faced, rather delicate woman of about fifty; an assortment of photographs of more or less uninteresting looking persons of both sexes; and then one which John took from its place and observed intently, while a little smile curved his lips. He was still looking at it when Phillip returned from the bedroom attired for the walk.
“Who’s this, Ryerson?” he asked.