“He will come,” said Grandmother, “when he has a mind to.”
“And is he coming from a great distance, maybe all the way from Paris?” (Philippe thought that Paris was the only city in the world, built on the world’s very edge.)
“Maybe, and then maybe not,” Grandmother told him. “There is no telling where your uncle will come from; he is apt to blow in from any quarter.”
“Ah, then that explains it!” remarked Philippe innocently. “Father said he always thought Uncle Pablôt was a little inclined to blow.”
“Now did he!” Grandmother was frowning and smiling at one and the same time. “Have you spoken to your Grandfather yet?”
“I did not know that Grandfather Joseph was home; I did not see him,” said Philippe truthfully.
“Use your young eyes sharply and look into every corner,” advised Grandmother. “Anjou!” she cried warningly, “you will burn your nose if you get too close to that roasting duck.”
Philippe gazed into the farthest corner of the room where he saw two dim spots of white glowing like snow in the night; he had to advance quite near before he could be sure that what he saw was the long white hair and the long white beard of Grandfather.
“Good day, Grandfather Joseph,” said Philippe, bowing low before the old man who sat huddled in a chair, the arms of which were worn shiny by the grip of thin fingers.
“‘Good day’? A very bad day, Grandson. Though I no longer hear nor see as I used to, I can feel that it is raining. Tell me, is it raining?”