Andy, from across the room, glared at her.
The young man’s eye had followed her with half-cynical smile.
Uncle William looked up from the leather case and pushed up his glasses. “You’ve got a good wife, Mr. Mason.”
“I know about it,” said the young man quietly. He stood up, holding out his hand for the case. Uncle William beamed helplessly at the baby—handing it back.
The young man replaced the case in his pocket without comment, but the comers of his smile softened a little—as if in spite of judgment.
“Well, now, you want to look round a little, don’t ye?” said Uncle William, standing up, “‘Seems a pity to hev to—things are kind of cluttered up so—if I’d known you was comin’ I’d ’a’ had ’em fixed up.”
The young man’s face broke a little. “I don’t doubt it,” he said.
Uncle William chuckled. “You’re used to havin’ ’em fixed up for you, I suppose?—Well—let’s see. I’ll tell you the best places to look.... The’s under the sink—”
Andy’s chair scraped the floor with sudden sound.
Uncle William looked at him mildly. “The’s under the sink,” he repeated firmly, “and under the lounge and under the bed and up chimbley and down cellar... but they’re all kind o’ hard places to get to.... That’s another thing I never thought of, about being a fish-warden—havin’ to scooch so much.”