On a desk in front of the window were pens, ink, some sheets of blue foolscap, and a legal looking document, one pen lying as if it had recently been used. Rees was sitting by the fire, with a newspaper in his hand. He got up to meet them, but it was with more nervous excitement than pleasure that he kissed his mother and shook hands with Deborah. Both saw at once that he was much thinner than he used to be, and that the old boyish, light-hearted expression had left his face. But it was not until the flush which had come into his cheeks at their entrance had died away that they knew what a wreck of the Rees they had known and loved was before them. His cheeks were sallow and sunken, his eyes looked larger and blacker than ever, there were new lines and furrows forming about his mouth and eyes, and, greater change than all, the look which had been frank had become cynical and bold. Even these two simple ladies could see that many people—women especially—would have considered Rees handsomer now than in the old time, but yet both knew that the alteration in him was for the worse.
Mrs. Pennant affected to think that her son was overworked. Deborah, who assigned a very different cause to the change in him, wondered whether the reticent old lady was sincere. Rees explained that he had lost his situation at the lawyer’s through no fault of his own, and that he was now keeping himself by law-copying at home. And he glanced at the desk. Although he hurried this out in a mumbling tone, Mrs. Pennant made no indiscreet comments, but contented herself with caressing his curly head and murmuring, “Poor boy, poor boy!”
After an hour spent in the dingy little room, Rees asking many questions about the family and about Carstow, and leaving no opportunity for questions in return, Mrs. Pennant asked if he would come out and take them somewhere to lunch.
“You know,” she explained gently, “we have had no breakfast.”
“Indeed, mother, I wish I were in a place where I could have had a nice luncheon prepared for you. But I have only this little den and a couple of cupboards—for they’re nothing more—on the second floor. And I’m too busy to go out. But I’ll pack you up comfortably in a cab and send you to a place where I’ve been very well served in better times, and you might get your shopping done or whatever calls you may have to make; and by the time you come back here I’ll have my work done. By-the-bye, Deborah,” he went on, turning as if by an afterthought to the girl who had risen to go, “you might stay and help me to get this through, if you will. I can get on twice as fast if you’ll dictate.”
The girl hesitated, but Mrs. Pennant broke in at once:
“Yes, yes; stay, my dear, and help him to get his work done. I will be back in an hour—or two hours. Which shall it be, Rees?”
“I don’t think we can get through in less than two hours, mother.”
“Very well, then. In two hours I will be back.”
The active old lady was already out of the room, Rees following, while Deborah, erect and very grave, waited for his return.