The Williamsons were at tea in the kitchen when Eric went in.
Mrs. Williamson was the "saint in spectacles and calico" which
Larry West had termed her. Eric liked her greatly. She was a
slight, gray-haired woman, with a thin, sweet, high-bred face,
deeply lined with the records of outlived pain. She talked
little as a rule; but, in the pungent country phrase she never
spoke but she said something. The one thing that constantly
puzzled Eric was how such a woman ever came to marry Robert
Williamson.

She smiled in a motherly fashion at Eric, as he hung his hat on
the white-washed wall and took his place at the table. Outside
of the window behind him was a birch grove which, in the
westering sun, was a tremulous splendour, with a sea of
undergrowth wavered into golden billows by every passing wind.

Old Robert Williamson sat opposite him, on a bench. He was a
small, lean old man, half lost in loose clothes that seemed far
too large for him. When he spoke his voice was as thin and
squeaky as he appeared to be himself.

The other end of the bench was occupied by Timothy, sleek and
complacent, with a snowy breast and white paws. After old Robert
had taken a mouthful of anything he gave a piece to Timothy, who
ate it daintily and purred resonant gratitude.

"You see we're busy waiting for you, Master," said old Robert.
"You're late this evening. Keep any of the youngsters in?
That's a foolish way of punishing them, as hard on yourself as on