by the open window, very pleasant—a fine mild evening. They were cutting the grass on the tennis court below; he heard the soft churr of the mower. Soon the girls would begin their tennis parties again. And at the thought he seemed to hear Marion’s voice ring out, “Good for you, partner. . . . Oh, played, partner. . . . Oh, very nice indeed.” Then Charlotte calling from the veranda, “Where is Harold?” And Ethel, “He’s certainly not here, mother.” And Charlotte’s vague, “He said”
Old Mr. Neave sighed, got up, and putting one hand under his beard, he took the comb from young Charles, and carefully combed the white beard over. Charles gave him a folded handkerchief, his watch and seals, and spectacle case.
“That will do, my lad.” The door shut, he sank back, he was alone. . . .
And now that little ancient fellow was climbing down endless flights that led to a glittering, gay dining-room. What legs he had! They were like a spider’s—thin, withered.
“You’re an ideal family, sir, an ideal family.”
But if that were true, why didn’t Charlotte or the girls stop him? Why was he all alone, climbing up and down? Where was Harold? Ah, it was no good expecting anything from Harold. Down, down went the little old spider, and then, to his horror, old Mr. Neave saw him slip past the dining-room and make
