But he could not read. He sat with his book in his hand, and looked up at the portrait of his grandfather, and at the photograph of himself. After a while he rose and took the photograph from the shelf, observing it at close range.
What a gallant young chap he had been, and what a pair he and Jane would have made! There was no vanity in that—he would have matched his youth with hers in those days. Oh, the man in the picture was a fit mate for Jane!
The man who held the picture in his hand was a mate for—nobody!
With a sudden furious gesture, he flung it from him—the glass broke against the wall when it struck.
Rusty whined in his basket, his nose over the edge of it. His master stood as still as a statue in the center of the hearth.
When Mrs. Follette returned, her son met her at the door. If he was pale, she did not speak of it. “I am half-frozen, Evans; we came in an open car.”
“Sit down by the fire, and I’ll get you some hot milk.”
“I wish you would. I must not risk a cold.”
It was a fact that she could not. She was up early every morning, directing the men who worked for her, and superintending the careful handling of the milk. Evans had offered, repeatedly, to help her, but she liked to do it herself. She was very competent, and she had built up her own business while her son was in the war. It seemed best to carry it on without him. She did not like to think of Evans as a milkman. A woman did not so easily lose caste—distinguished Englishwomen had gone into all kinds of occupations. The thing was to do it with an air. She had decided shrewdly that she must in some way differentiate her product from that of the ordinary dairyman, so she had called it Gold Seal milk, and each bottle was closed with a small gold seal bearing her family crest. Evans had laughed at her, but her shrewdness had been justified. She kept her cows in fine condition and sent her cards to doctors. The cards, too, bore the gold seal. And soon her reputation was established. Big cars stopped at her door, and people who came expecting to find a crude countrywoman were ushered into the old library with its portraits and an imposing background of books. There Mrs. Follette, in quiet black with white cuffs and collars, her gray hair high, received them. Her customers went away impressed and told others.