“Benjy takes a sight o’ comfort with him,” responded William.
They made their way toward the house, and Jimmu Yoshitomo approached from the garden, bowing low.
Uncle William bowed low in return. Andy remained stiffly erect, detached from all these things.
“Don’t you stop workin’, Jimmie Yosh,” said Uncle William kindly—“We’re just goin’ to set ’round a spell.” They went on toward the house and Jimmu Yoshitomo returned to his flowers.
Inside, the house was a bit of tropic-land that had floated over seas, and lighted on the Island. Colors in the old rugs glowed dully, and little gleams of metal and glass caught the light and played with it. The tiny kitchen was a white-set gem, and through the long vista of the living-room doors there were hints of the art gallery and a scattered horde of pictures.
“Like enough he’s in there,” said William.
The gallery was the only room in the house that had not been put in order. Even Sergia’s and Alan’s rooms were ready—the beds made and a little basket cradle swinging in the apple-wood frame that George Manning had made for it—in his off hours.
Uncle William could never pass the door without looking in. He peeked in now, on tiptoe, and withdrew.
“Looks nice, don’t it?” he confided to Andy.
“Kind o’ odd,” admitted Andy.