Cleone played with her fingers, her head bent.
"Do you, sir? He should be home again ere long. Do you—do you yet know where he is?"
"No. That does not worry me. My family does not write letters."
"Mr. Tom—has not told you, I suppose."
"No. I've not seen Tom for some time.... The boy has been away six months now. Gad, but I'd like to see him walk in at that door!"
Cleone's head sank a little lower.
"Do you think—harm could have come to him, sir?"
"No. Else had I heard. Faith, it's our own fault, Cleone, and we are grumbling!"
"I never—"
"My dear, don't pretend to me! Do you think I don't know?"