Jack minded, but he went and sat in the parlour, like a chief lackey, or a buffer between all the relations and the outer world.
The house had become more quiet. Monica had gone over to the Reds with clean overalls for the little boys, who had been bundled off there. Jack got this piece of news from Grace, who was constantly washing more dishes and serving more relations. A certain anger burned in him as he heard, but he took no notice. Mary was lying down upstairs: she had been up all night with Gran. Tom was attending to the horses. Katie and Mrs. Ellis had gone upstairs with Baby and Ellie, and Mr. Ellis was also upstairs. Lennie had slipped away again. So Jack had track of all the family. He was always like that, wanting to know where they all were.
Mrs. Greenlow came in from Gran's inner room.
"Mary? Where's Mary?" she asked hurriedly.
Jack shook his head, and she passed on. She had left the door of Gran's room open, so Jack could see in. All the relations were there, horrible, the women weeping and perspiring, and wiping tears and perspiration away together, the men in their waistcoats and shirt-sleeves, perspiring and looking ugly. A Methodist parson son-in-law was saying prayers in an important monotone.
At last Mary came, looking anxious.
"Yes, Gran? Did you want me?" Jack heard her voice, and saw her by the bed.
"I felt so overcome with all these people," said Gran, in a curiously strong, yet frightened voice. "What do they all want?"
"They've come to see you. Come—" Mary hesitated "—to see if they can do anything for you."
"To frighten the bit of life out of me that I've got. But they're not going to. Get me some beef tea, Mary, and don't leave me alone with them."