Sutton burst open the door. Big, blustering, wet in his immense grey coat, he came into the dining-room.
“Hello!” he said to his nephew, “making yourself at home?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Berry.
“Hello, Jack,” he said to the girl. “Got owt to grizzle about?”
“What for?” she asked, in a clear, half-challenging voice, that had that peculiar twang, almost petulant, so female and so attractive. Yet she was defiant like a boy.
“It’s a wonder if you haven’t,” growled Sutton. And, with a really intimate movement, he stooped down and fondled his dogs, though paying no attention to them. Then he stood up, and remained with feet apart on the hearthrug, his head ducked forward, watching the girl. He seemed abstracted, as if he could only watch her. His great-coat hung open, so that she could see his figure, simple and human in the great husk of cloth. She stood nervously with her hands behind her, glancing at him, unable to see anything else. And he was scarcely conscious but of her. His eyes were still strained and staring, and as they followed the girl, when, long-limbed and languid, she moved away, it was as if he saw in her something impersonal, the female, not the woman.
“Had your dinner?” he asked.
“We were just going to have it,” she replied, with the same curious little vibration in her voice, like the twang of a string.
The mother entered, bringing a saucepan from which she ladled soup into three plates.
“Sit down, lad,” said Sutton. “You sit down, Jack, an’ give me mine here.”