Mrs. Morton looked round the white-panelled room with its shining floor and furniture, and she looked approvingly, for the lamps were warmly shaded, the fire was bright, and the tea-table and comfortable chairs were drawn close to the hearth.
Again she strained her eyes into the dusk, and when they had cleared themselves of the reflected lamplight and the dim picture of herself on the other side of the window, she saw the dog-cart moving quickly.
She was at the hall door, as she had planned, at the moment when Morton reined in the horse and the groom sprang to its head, and she saw the startling dexterity of Theresa's leap to the ground.
She heard her son's reproachful tones. "You might have hurt yourself."
And Theresa's answer, clear and gay: "No I mightn't. I can calculate a jump to an inch."
Morton laughed, and led the small figure up the steps.
"Mother, here is Theresa," he said.
She was embraced, but, in the half light, Mrs. Morton could not see her face. She felt the cold firmness of her cheeks, and she kissed them through strands of wind-blown hair.
With a processional solemnity, they passed into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Morton, Basil and a maid helped to free her of her wraps.
"You must be very cold, dear. Come to the fire."