"There's a letter for you," said Clara.
He took it from the table. "It's from Edward Webb."
"Yes. I've had one, too."
Alexander opened his. A short note, tremulous as the man, asked leniency for an enclosure which Alexander pocketed. "He's not been here for months."
"No, but he says he'll be coming soon. He's been going home when he could. His wife isn't well, and I think he's worried, poor little bit of a man!"
"He's a big man," he said, and thought of Janet's dream.
"Well, you know," she said good-humouredly, "I think of all of you as children. Look what he has sent."
"This will never be Theresa," said Alexander. Dark eyes looked merrily at him from the picture, a soft mouth smiled, a nose, very slightly tilted, provoked to pleasure.
"No, that's Grace. Here's Theresa. I can't think how he came to have a girl like Grace: he's plain enough in the other one."
He looked long at Grace, for she had a delicate warmth of beauty hitherto unknown to him. It made him think of southern sun, ripe fruits, round, bare limbs, and brilliant wines.