The next morning it rained so heavily that Mr. Evringham was obliged to forego his ride. Wet weather was an unmixed ill to him. It not only made riding and golf miserable, but it reminded him that rheumatism was getting a grip on one of his shoulders.
“It is disgusting, perfectly disgusting to grow old,” he muttered as he descended the broad staircase. On the lower landing Jewel rose up out of the dusk, where she had been sitting near the beautiful clock. Her bright little face shone up at him like a sunbeam.
“You didn't expect to see me, grandpa, did you?” she asked, and as it did not even occur to him to stoop his head to her, she seized his hand and kissed it as they went on down the stairs.
“I was so disappointed because it rained so hard. I was going to see you ride.”
“Yes. Beastly weather,” assented Mr. Evringham.
“But the flowers and trees want a drink, don't they?”
“'M. I suppose so.”
“And the brook will be prettier than ever.”
“'M. See that you keep out of it.”
“Yes, I will, grandpa; and I thought the first thing this morning, I'll wear my rubbers all day. I was so afraid I might forget I put them right on to make sure.”