But Boney's dull. He hasn't spoken a word for weeks. D'ye think he's getting old?"
Mr. Fennel replied, guardedly: "Well, he may be getting a little old."
Nicholas said: "He's moulting. He drops his feathers all over the place."
She asked Mr. Fennel about a number of his parishioners, but she had difficulty in remembering their names. Augusta, who had begun to pour tea, said in an undertone to Ernest: "I seem to notice a difference in Mama. Her memory . . . and what a long time she was coming down the hall! Do you notice anything?"
Ernest looked toward his mother anxiously. "She did seem to lean heavily. Perhaps a little more than usual. But she ate a very good dinner. A very good dinner indeed."
Finch had come up behind them. He overheard the words, and thought he knew the reason why his grandmother showed a certain languor in the daytime. It would be strange if she did not, he thought, remembering her vigour, her clear-headedness of the night before. He had a guilty feeling that he was perhaps sapping her vitality by his midnight visits. . . . He came to his aunt's side.
Augusta handed him a cup of tea. "Take this to my mother," she said, "and then come back for the crumpets and honey."
Crumpets and honey! Finch's mouth watered. He wondered if he should ever get over this feeling of being ravenous. And yet he was so thin! He felt discouraged about himself. He wished his aunt would not send him about with tea. He invariably slopped it.
Old Adeline watched him with pursed mouth as he drew an occasional table to her side and set her tea on it. Her greed equalled his own. Her hands, trembling a little, poured what tea had slopped into the saucer back into the cup, raised the cup to her lips, and drank gustily. The rings flashed on her shapely hands. Mr. Fennel marked them with disapproval.
