Mrs. Clay (Emma’s sister Kate) opened to him. She was better dressed than in former days, but still untidy. Emma was out making purchases, but could not be many minutes. In the kitchen the third sister, Jane, was busy with her needle; at Richard’s entrance she rose from her chair with evident feebleness: her illness of the spring had lasted long, and its effects were grave. The poor girl—she closely resembled Emma in gentleness of face, but the lines of her countenance were weaker—now suffered from pronounced heart disease, and the complicated maladies which rheumatic fever so frequently leaves behind it in women. She brightened at sight of the visitor, and her eyes continued to rest on his face with quiet satisfaction.
One of Kate’s children was playing on the floor. The mother caught it up irritably, and began lamenting the necessity of washing its dirty little hands and face before packing it off to bed. In a minute or two she went up stairs to discharge these duties. Between her and Richard there was never much exchange of words.
‘How are you feeling, Jane?’ Mutimer inquired, taking a seat opposite her.
‘Better—oh, very much better! The cough hasn’t been not near so troublesome these last nights.’
‘Mind you don’t do too much work. You ought to have put your sewing aside by now.’
‘Oh, this is only a bit of my own. I’m sorry to say there isn’t very much of the other kind to do yet.’
‘Comes in slowly, does it?’ Richard asked, without appearance of much interest.
‘It’ll be better soon, I dare say. People want time, you see, to get to know of us.’
Richard’s eyes wandered.
‘Have you finished the port wine yet?’ he asked, as if to fill a gap.