“And are you an artist, too?” said Philip, with a kind of reverent surprise.
“No, Phil,” said his lordship, with a little laugh which turned into a sigh, “neither that nor anything else that I hoped to be.”
“I am sure,” whispered Philip, “that you are everything that is good, and I am so glad you were fond of my father.”
“No one could resist him,” said Lord Ashden, looking kindly at the boy. “I never saw any one make friends as he did. Poor fellow! What a bright future every one prophesied for him, and how dreadful the tragic ending of such a life of promise!”
Lord Ashden forgot, in his memories of a past time, that he was speaking to the son of the man whose fate he was mourning, and for a little while he seemed lost in reverie. Philip felt flushed and uncomfortable, and had a miserable feeling that he was in some way to blame for his father’s fate. But no such thought was in Lord Ashden’s mind. After a few moments of silence he seemed to wake to the fear that he had been neglecting his young companion.
“Poor Phil!” he said, laying his hand caressingly upon his shoulder! “you can never know how worthy your father was of love, or how he would have loved you.”
“Oh, would he have loved me?” exclaimed Philip eagerly.
“Would he?” said Lord Ashden in surprise; “of course he would; what doubt could there be?”
“I thought—I was afraid—I mean—I didn’t know,” said Philip, hesitating and feeling that he was on dangerous ground.
“What did you think and fear, and what didn’t you know?” said his friend, smiling.