David pointed to the ground.
"Your furniture seems—"
"Don't jest," his uncle interrupted. "That chair I have broken to pieces with my own hands because of the woman who sat upon it not many hours since."
David frowned.
"You mean Marcia?"
"I mean Marcia—the woman who was my daughter," was the stern reply, "the woman of whose visit you warned me."
"Come into the house with me," David begged, turning his back upon Mandeleys. "You sit and look at that great drear building and brood overmuch. I want to talk with you."
Richard Vont rose obediently to his feet and followed his visitor into the little parlour. David looked around him curiously.
"This place seems to have the flavour of many years ago," he said. "Sometimes I can scarcely realise that I have ever eaten my meals off that oak table. Sometimes it seems like yesterday."
"Time passes, but time don't count for much," the old man sighed. "Mary Wells will be up from the village soon, and she'll make us a cup of tea. Sit opposite me, lad. Is there any more news?"