THE GIRL IN HIS HOUSE
thing visible through the agency of chalk, but representing—nothing." Was that true? Was he no more than a harmless, worthless idler? The thought hurt a little.
Doris came in with the coffee. She set the salver on the reading-table and took from under her arm a photograph.
"My father. Isn't he splendid?"
The man was singularly handsome; there was a rare combination of beauty and intelligence. No wonder the girl adored him.
"Isn't he glorious? He is gray now. Can't you see the 'bravoes' in his eyes?"
"I can see them in yours," he said. "My own father was a fine chap. He and mother were the jolliest comrades. And they always made me their pal. First it was the mother; father got lonesome, I guess; and then—then I found myself alone. That was fourteen years ago."
"I never knew my mother. She died when I was born. How does it seem to you?" she asked, indicating the room. "Are you sorry you sold it?"
"Not now. But I'm really a bit choked up."
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