"Roger says Cousin Becky is very poor," Edgar observed thoughtfully. "It must be dreadful to be poor, mother, mustn't it?"
"Yes," she acknowledged, surprised at the unusual gravity of her son's face.
"That's why they invited Cousin Becky to Princess Street," Edgar proceeded, "because she's poor and lonely. Roger says now Cousin Becky's brother is dead she hasn't even a home, and no one wants her—you know you didn't, mother."
"But to burden themselves with an old woman," Mrs. Marsh was commencing, when the keen, questioning gaze with which her little boy was regarding her caused her to break off and leave her sentence unfinished.
"It's so odd you didn't want Cousin Becky here," he said. "I can't think why you didn't, because we've lots of spare rooms, and we're always having visitors. Don't you like Cousin Becky, mother?"
"I have not seen her for many years," was the evasive reply. "Will you have another cup of tea, Edgar? No, I will not allow you to have any more cake; you will make yourself ill."
"Give me just a tiny piece, mother. I'm hungry still."
"Then have some bread and butter."
"No," pouted the spoilt child, "I won't have anything more to eat if I can't have cake."
It ended in his being allowed another slice, and whilst he was eating it, his father, a short, bald, middle-aged man, entered the room, and came up to the fire, rubbing his hands and complaining of the cold.