A small log fire was burning on the hearth, and the heavy window curtains were drawn so as to exclude almost all light. The old man lay on a dark-coloured sofa with his back to those few rays of light which could make their way in under the circumstances. He was quite alone.
“How do you feel now?” she asked gently.
“Better. Quite well,” snapped the old man, shortly. “I only wanted a mouthful of my old brandy to put me right.”
And he pointed to a decanter and tiny glass on a table near him.
“Who got it out for you?” asked she.
“That girl Marie,” answered the old man.
And although she could not see his face clearly, Olwen could tell by his voice that he for one would show no reluctance at parting with her.
“Your nephew wants to see her and her father off the island before he goes away,” said Olwen, watching for the effect of her words.
It was electric. The old man struggled up to his elbow and stared at her.
“Ah, you have let him in then? I’m to get rid of one greedy rascal only to let in another?”