The dog looked up at him in mournful distrust. Joe stood with his knees
stuck out, in real horsy fashion.
'Have you had a letter from Lucy?' Fred Henry asked of his sister.
'Last week,' came the neutral reply.
'And what does she say?'
There was no answer.
'Does she _ask_ you to go and stop there?' persisted Fred Henry.
'She says I can if I like.'
'Well, then, you'd better. Tell her you'll come on Monday.'
This was received in silence.
'That's what you'll do then, is it?' said Fred Henry, in some
exasperation.
But she made no answer. There was a silence of futility and irritation in
the room. Malcolm grinned fatuously.
'You'll have to make up your mind between now and next Wednesday,' said
Joe loudly, 'or else find yourself lodgings on the kerbstone.'
The face of the young woman darkened, but she sat on immutable.
'Here's Jack Fergusson!' exclaimed Malcolm, who was looking aimlessly out
of the window.
'Where?' exclaimed Joe, loudly.
'Just gone past.'
'Coming in?'
Malcolm craned his neck to see the gate.
'Yes,' he said.
There was a silence. Mabel sat on like one condemned, at the head of the
table. Then a whistle was heard from the kitchen. The dog got up and
barked sharply. Joe opened the door and shouted:
'Come on.'
After a moment a young man entered. He was muffled up in overcoat and a
purple woollen scarf, and his tweed cap, which he did not remove, was
pulled down on his head.
Pages:
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220