“It is Perkins. You knew she stayed on when the Thursbys left.”
“Yes, but I did not know she was still here. And yet I’m not surprised. She’s part of the house. I wonder if the Derricks like her.”
“She always had a very peculiar manner, but she was an excellent servant.”
Mrs. Millicent’s voice faltered. This inspection was becoming too poignant, and she moved on. It seemed that any moment there might emerge that well-remembered figure, with the straight, familiar form and those clear, thoughtful eyes. She had turned away, her lips trembling, when Jean spoke quickly and sharply.
“Mother, who is that?”
From the climbing rose-bushes that bordered the wide drive, a figure had emerged, shears in hand, a figure that halted and stared. The broad shoulders, the uncouth head, the powerful and deliberate movements of the man were unmistakable.
“Martin!” she said under her breath. “It’s Martin!”
Mrs. Millicent stopped, turned, and came unsteadily back. Then she too looked, and became weak and agitated.
“It is Martin—”
“But where can he have come from, and why come back here?”