The two seated themselves--Peter in the easy chair and Jack
opposite. The boy's eyes roamed from the portrait, with its round,
grave face, to Peter's head resting on the cushioned back,
illumined by the light of the lamp, throwing into relief the
clear-cut lips, little gray side-whiskers and the tightly drawn
skin covering his scalp, smooth as polished ivory.
"Am I like him?" asked Peter. He had caught the boy's glances and
had read his thoughts.
"No--and yes. I can't see it in the portrait, but I do in the way
you move your hands and in the way you bow. I keep thinking of him
when I am with you. It may, as you say, be a good thing to have a
gentleman for a father, sir, but it is a dreadful thing, all the
same, to lose him just as you need him most. I wouldn't hate so
many of the things about me if I had him to go to now and then."
"Tell me about him and your early life," cried Peter, crossing one
leg over the other. He knew the key had been struck; the boy might
now play on as he chose.
"There is very little to tell.
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