“No doubt,” said Mr Mervyn, smiling.
“By the way, Mrs Trelyan, how old are you?”
“Ninety next month,” said the old lady; “and—dear, dear, what a bother visitors are. Here’s somebody else coming.”
For at that moment there was a firm step heard without, and some one stooped and entered the doorway, hardly seeing the group on his left in the gloomy room.
“Is Mrs Trelyan at home?” he said; and Tiny Rea laid her hand upon her sisters arm.
“Yes, young man,” said the old lady, shading her eyes, and gazing at the strongly-built figure before her. “I’m Mrs Trelyan, and what may you want?”
“To see how you are, granny. I’m Richard Trevor.”
“And—and—” cried the old woman, letting fall her net as she rose slowly and laid her hand upon his arm; “and only a minute ago I was talking about you, and declaring you’d never be such a man as your father. My dear boy, how you have grown.”
“One does grow in twelve years, granny,” said the young man. “Well, I’m glad to see you alive and hearty.”
“Thank you, my boy,” said the old lady; and then turning and pointing to the wall, “Look!” she said, “that’s the very stick that I took away from you one day for teasing my hens. You were a bad boy. You know you were.”