Elaine—she had this poetic name—fingered her cat timidly, not knowing what to say or to do, unable even to ask her visitor to sit down. He noticed how her skirt hung almost flat on her hips. She was young, scarce developed, a long, slender thing. Her colouring was warm and exquisite.
The elder woman bustled out to the kitchen. Berry fondled the terrier dogs that had come curiously to his heels, and glanced out of the window at the wet, deserted orchard.
This room, too, was not well furnished, and rather dark. But there was a big red fire.
“He always has fox terriers,” he said.
“Yes,” she answered, showing her teeth in a smile.
“Do you like them, too?”
“Yes”—she glanced down at the dogs. “I like Tam better than Sally—”
Her speech always tailed off into an awkward silence.
“We’ve been to see Aunt Maud,” said the nephew.
Her eyes, blue and scared and shrinking, met his.