"Did y'hear Mr. George get my son to promise to make a will, when y'were in Perth?"
"No, marm," said Jack promptly.
"Well, take it from me, if he promised, he hasn't done it. He never signed a paper in his life, unless it was his marriage register. And but for my driving, he'd never have signed that. Sit down!"
Jack sat on the edge of a chair, his heart in his boots.
"I told you before I'd ha' married your grandfather, if he hadn't been married already. I wonder where you'd ha' been then! Just as well I didn't, for he wouldn't look at me after he took my leg off. Just come here a minute."
Jack got up and went to her side. She put her soft, dry, dead old hand on his face and stroked it, pressing on the cheekbones.
"Ay," she said. "I suppose those are his bones again. And my bones are in Monica. Don't stand up, lad, take your seat."
Jack sat down in extreme discomfort.
"Well," she resumed, "I was very well off with old Ellis, so I won't complain. But you've got your English father's eyes. You'd have been better with mine. Those bones, those beautiful bones, and my sort of eyes."
Gran's eyes were queer and remote now. But they had been perhaps like Monica's, only a darker grey, and with a darker, subtler cat look in them.