“Nobody ever pretended that he was perfect,” Laura frowned.
“At the same time——” laughed the old eyes.
“And without partiality——” amended the young one’s—
“Have you ever seen any one like him?” they demanded triumphantly: and Laura and Mrs. Cloud smiled at each other across the table.
Dinner was over. Sugar and cream followed the mound of strawberries from plate to plate, and Gran’papa was saying “Doubtless——” in the unnatural voice of one about to make a quotation, when Mrs. Cloud lifted her finger.
“Timothy!” she said resignedly and pushed back her chair.
“What about him?” Justin was at the side-board, busy with cork-screw and a bottle.
“Listen!”
There was a thin piping in the air, the merest adumbration of a sound that might have been a mouse, a creak in the woodwork, a whistle of wind, or, if one were a grandmother, a child whimpering.
“I don’t hear anything,” said Mr. Valentine testily. He disliked a reminder of his deafness.