"My friend Finch Whiteoak," Leigh introduced him, a protective hand on his arm. "This is my mother, Finch, and this ill-looking young person my sister Ada."
In turn their soft hands lay in Finch's bony one. In turn he saw the soft pale oval of each face, the drooping locks of bronze hair, the heavy-lidded grey eyes. But the mother's hair had a tinge of gold, her eyes a tint of blue, and the amused and tolerant expression of her mouth made him afraid of her.
"Brothers will say such cruel things about their sisters," she said, with an adoring smile at her son. "I suppose you do it occasionally yourself."
Finch, breathing heavily, stammered: "Well—I suppose so—at least, I really don't know."
"Honestly now," said Leigh, "don't you find Ada distressingly ill-favoured?"
She returned their gaze serenely, and Finch stammered again: "Oh, look here, Leigh . . ."
Mrs. Leigh observed: "Arthur has talked of you a great deal. He thinks your acting of the idiot boy quite wonderful."
"Ah, that's easy for me," grinned Finch. "The idiot part."
"Mother," broke in Leigh, "how can you? Cloutie John isn't an idiot. He's mad. Absolutely, gloriously mad."
Ada Leigh said, in a low deep voice, with a look into Finch's eyes which set them definitely apart from the others: "Is that easy, too, for you? The madness, I mean."
Her brother answered for Finch, fearing that he would give another stammering, grinning reply. "The easiest thing in the world, my child. All he has to do is to be himself. He's absolutely, gloriously mad also. Just wait until you see the play. When Cloutie John comes on the stage, madness, like an electric current, is going to thrill the soul of that simple-minded audience. We're all thrilled by him, even at rehearsals."
Ada continued to gaze into Finch's eyes as though Leigh had not spoken.
