He stood looking at her—a man of rather more than middle height but bowed, with silvery hair and a little patch of white whiskers. The rest of his face was clean-shaven, still hard and brown as in his youth, and his eyes were like steel.
"No," he answered, "I am not glad. Since you are here, though, take this chair. I will fetch another while I hear what you have to say."
"Shall we go inside?" she suggested.
He shook his head.
"Your mother lived and died there," he reminded her.
Marcia set her teeth.
"I suppose she walked in the garden sometimes," she said resentfully.
"The garden is different," he declared. "The earth changes from generation to generation, just as the flowers here throw out fresh blossoms and the weeds come and go. But my rooftree stands where it always did. Wait."
He disappeared into the house and returned in a few moments with a chair which he placed a few feet away from Marcia. Then he sat and looked at her steadily.
"So you are Marcia," he said. "You've grown well-looking."