"I missed him," he said in his melancholy voice. "Perhaps he missed me," he added with resignation. He was a tall young man with large hands and feet, and his eyes were vague behind his spectacles. "I thought he would be here. Is everybody out?"
"Notya's away, you know."
"He told me."
"And John and Miriam—I don't know where they are."
He found it difficult to talk to Helen, and as he sat down in the armchair he searched his mind for a remark. "I thought people always ironed on Tuesdays," he said at last.
"Some people do. These are just odd things."
"Eliza does. She makes us have cold supper. And on Mondays. It's too bad."
"But there can't be much to do for you."
"I don't know. There's washing on Monday, and on Sunday she goes to church—so she says."
Helen changed her iron and worked on. She moved rhythmically and her bare forearms were small and shapely, but Daniel did not look at her. He seemed to be interested in the wrinkled boots he wore, and occasionally he uttered a sad; "Puss, Puss," to the cat sleeping before the fire. A light breeze was blowing outside and Helen sometimes paused to look through the open window.