Stephen was waiting for him, as he had expected, in the dining room. The elder Strangewey was seated in his accustomed chair, smoking his pipe and reading the paper. The table was laid for a meal, which Jennings was preparing to serve.
"Back again, John?" his brother remarked, looking at him fixedly over his newspaper.
John picked up one or two letters, glanced them over, and flung them down upon the table. He had examined every envelope for the last few months with the same expectancy, and thrown each one down with the same throb of disappointment.
"As you see."
"Had a good time?"
"Not very. We were too strong for them. They came without a bowler at all."
"Did you get a good knock?"
"A hundred and seven," John replied. "It was just a slog, though. Nothing to eat, thank you, Jennings. You can clear the table so far as I am concerned. I had supper with the Greys. Have they finished the barley-fields, Stephen?"
"All in at eight o'clock."
There was a brief silence. Then Stephen knocked the ashes from his pipe and rose to his feet.