George maintained a stupid silence.
“Don’t bother him, father,” said Emily.
“Tha art an öwd whittle, feyther,” added Tom, smiling good-naturedly. He spoke to his father in dialect, but to Emily in good English. Whatever she said had Tom’s immediate support. Before serving us with pie, Emily gave her brother junket and damsons, setting the plate and the spoon before him as if he were a child. For this act of grace Tom looked at her lovingly, and stroked her hand as she passed.
After dinner, George said, with a miserable struggle for an indifferent tone:
“Aren’t you going to give Cyril a glass of whisky?”
He looked up furtively, in a conflict of shame and hope. A silence fell on the room.
“Ay!” said the old man softly. “Let ’im ’ave a drop.”
“Yes!” added Tom, in submissive pleading.
All the men in the room shrank a little, awaiting the verdict of the woman.
“I don’t know,” she said clearly, “that Cyril wants a glass.”