She spoke this over her shoulder. There was the same colour in her tawny eyes as in her crisp tawny hair, but her brows were darker. She had a forehead, Jack decided, like the plaster-cast of Minerva. And she had the queerest way of looking at you under her brows, and over her shoulder. Funny pair of lambs, these.
The two girls went downstairs arm in arm, at a run. This is quite a feat, but evidently they were used to it.
Jack looked on life, social life inside a house, as something to be borne in silence. These two girls were certainly a desperate addition. He heard them burst into the parlour, the other one repeating:
"He's coming. Here comes Beau."
"I thought his name was Jack. Bow is it!" exclaimed a voice.
He entered the parlour with his elbows at his sides, his starched collar feeling very stiff. He was aware of the usual hideous room, rather barer than at home: plush cushions on a horse-hair sofa, and a green carpet: a large stout woman with reddish hair in a silk frock and gold chains, and Mr. George introducing her as Mrs. Watson, otherwise Aunt Matilda. She put diamond-ringed hands on Jack's shoulders and looked into his face, which he thought a repellent procedure.
"So like your father, dear boy; how's your dear mother?"
And in spite of his inward fury of resistance, she kissed him. For she was but a woman of forty-two.
"Quite well, thank you," said Jack: though considering he had been at sea for six weeks, he knew as little about his mother's health as did Aunt Matilda herself.
"Did y' blow y' candle out?" asked Mr. George.