Mrs. Ashton was a tall, blonde, handsomely dressed woman, who rarely
showed affection for anyone save her husband and children and whose
leisure time was largely devoted to playing bridge. Neither Betty nor
her son looked like her. Richard resembled his father, while Betty must
have inherited her appearance from some more remote ancestor. In one
comer of the parlor hung an oil painting of one of Mr. Ashton's great-
aunts, a young English girl in a white muslin dress and picture hat,
whom Betty always insisted she resembled.
Mrs. Ashton was frowning anxiously.
"Hasn't Betty returned, Dick?" she inquired. "It is an hour since
luncheon and her friends may arrive at any moment. The child was not at
all well yesterday and, I do wonder if her science teacher can be
keeping her in, Miss McMurtry is so inconsiderate. I really don't know
what to do about Betty this summer, she is so opposed to going to Europe
with us again and wants to form a club or a camp, something perfectly
extraordinary, so as to spend her summer in the woods. She almost
talked your father into the idea last evening, but I do hope, dear
Richard, that you will oppose her. You have such influence with Betty."
Dick and his mother were standing together by the window now on the
lookout, for the truant.
Pages:
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61