“Hel-lo!” Geraldine called, or rather sang, a sol-me family signal.
The indefatigable mother—she was a woman of imposing size, but agile—pushed along among the darkened chairs.
“Well, my girl,” she greeted cheerily, “how is the head? Better?”
If it had not been so dark the mother’s appreciating smile could have been observed.
“Head?” Geraldine was only half out of her nap. It took the sweet smile of university instructor Freneau shining behind a bracket-lamp to recall the voluble excuses given that morning to account for Miss Wells’ stay at home.
“Surely,” the mother poked her jocosely, “you don’t expect us to believe you were shamming just to get rid of us—eh, Mr. Freneau?”
“Oh!” Geraldine remembered. “Much better, thank you, mother. Breakfast seemed to fix me up. I’ve been feeling fine all day.”
Mrs. Wells dropped into a chair beside her daughter. Mr. Freneau, hovering near, was dismissed with many expressions of appreciation for his day’s work. The son, Walter, an excessively thin, bent-over, boy-man, sprawled in a chair. He seemed to be sleeping. Presently the mother tapped him gently on the knee and suggested that he go below and get some rest.
“All right, mother,” the boy spoke up suddenly. In spite of his springy rise to his feet and his attempt at an assured air, one could see at a glance that this son was weak. His deep-set eyes roved restlessly, his body swayed gently or became noticeably rigid, as if a natural balance was an effort.
The mother watched him as he swayed along the deck. He disappeared down a stairway with an extraordinary clatter, as if he had fallen over the first few steps.