‘Who?’
‘Why, mother and father. Hullo! they’ve got a gentleman with them. Perhaps he’s the new tragedian. Lor ‘ain’t he popped into the house quick!’
Mrs. Smith rose and folded her work up.
‘I’m going to my own room, Shakspeare dear,’ she said;
‘I’ll come and see your mother presently.’
Bess ran out before Shakspeare could reply. She didn’t want strangers to come in and see her red eyes.
Hardly had she beat a retreat before Mrs. Jarvis, having duly embraced granny below, came panting up the stairs, making them creak and tremble, and, pushing open the door, she had Shakspeare clasped in her motherly arms, squeezing him so vigorously that his ‘God bless you, mother!’ came out in spasmodic jerks, a syllable at a time.
Then there was father to shake hands with, and then Shakspeare, looking up, saw a young man, with a shaved facc and a curious, frightened look on it, standing at the doorway. He had on a long overcoat that Shakspeare knew was his father’s, and when he, with instinctive politeness, took his hat off, Shakspeare’s quick eye noticed that his hair was closely cropped.
Mrs. Jarvis noticed the look.
‘This is a friend of ours, Shakspeare, my boy, that we met on the road. He’s going to lodge with us for a bit.’