The old lady was sitting by the fire in her rococo parlour, reading Alphonse Daudet’s new book. Her hawk’s face seemed to be not so much wrinkled as finely cracked like old ivory. Over her shoulders she wore a wrap of rose and silver brocade.
“Why, Bram, I thought you were entertaining visitors this afternoon.”
“I am. He’s downstairs in the schoolroom. Jack Fleming, I mean.”
“Is that a son of that foxy-faced solicitor in High Street?”
Bram nodded.
“But Jack’s rather decent. I think you’d like him, grandmamma.”
“Ah, I’m too old to begin liking new people.”
Bram kicked his legs together, trying to make up his mind what line to adopt for enlisting the old lady’s sympathy.
“Blundell’s Diorama is here,” he announced at last.
“What’s that? A new disease?”