When, between David and Tom, with her hair twisted up into a great coil, and one of John’s coats buttoned about her, she walked slowly about the incredible desolation of the walls, the villagers drew back a little and eyed the family curiously.
“Pretty tough welcome home, Tom!” one of the younger men said, shyly but heartily sympathetic.
“Oh, that’s all right!” Tom said, with a nod.
“Dead loss, hey?” asked an older man, interestedly, making a tut-tutting sound.
“Nope. Some insurance,” Tom admitted. But the other merely shook his head, and made the same pitying, shocked sound again.
When they walked past what had been the sitting room Tom climbed over a mass of bricks and kicked free with his foot a segment of charred and soaked frame to which a tattered strip of canvas, stiff with paint, still clung.
“’Member this?” he asked.
David and Gabrielle looked at it, nodding. There were but a few useless inches of it left; but they could see it had been a painting. Still to be seen was a finely executed hand, a man’s hand, laid upon the head of a beautiful greyhound.
“Uncle Roger,” David said, gravely.
“My father,” said Tom.