"Have you been at Netherby lately?" she asked. "I haven't heard a word from anybody there since I left. I wrote to father and mother, but neither of them answered, so I gave it up. I was sorry, all the same. I hear from Joe, of course. Have they conscripted Amos yet? How are the children?"
This was neither the tone nor the temper that Uncle Fred had anticipated from the prodigal. He had expected either flamboyant defiance or broken-hearted contrition—most probably the latter. This resolute, cheery, ladylike—yes, he had to admit it, ladylike—bonhomie was making his mission more difficult than he had anticipated. He cleared his throat.
"I was at Netherby during July," he began. "Your father and mother are well, though borne down with sorrow, over—over—"
"Over what?"
Uncle Fred, who had meant to improve the occasion, baulked at his first fence.
"Over this wicked war," he substituted.
"Well, they haven't much to worry about," said Marjorie composedly. "Joe tells me that he's in no particular danger, except from odd long-range shells. Amos—I suppose he has kept out of it all right?"
"Your brother is in Glasgow," said Uncle Fred, "doing civilian war work of national importance."
"I thought so," said Marjorie. "Trust Amos!"
"Your father," continued Uncle Fred, "commissioned me to ascertain your whereabouts in London—"