When the road turned again they met Mr. James. He walked with queer, jerky steps, his arms bowed out stiffly.
As he passed he edged away from you. His mouth moved as if he were trying not to laugh.
They knew about Mr. James now. His mind hadn't grown since he was five years old. He could do nothing but walk. Martha, the old servant, dressed and undressed him.
"I shall have to go," Roddy said. "If I stay here I shall look like Mr. James. I shall walk with my arms bowed out, Catty'll dress and undress me."
XXI
I.
They hated the piano. They had pushed it away against the dark outside wall. Its strings were stiff with cold, and when the rain came its wooden hammers swelled so that two notes struck together in the bass.
The piano-tuner made them move it to the inner wall in the large, bright place that belonged to the cabinet. Mamma was annoyed because Mary had taken the piano-tuner's part.
Mamma loved the cabinet. She couldn't bear to see it standing in the piano's dark corner where the green Chinese bowls hardly showed behind the black glimmer of the panes. The light fell full on the ragged, faded silk of the piano, and on the long scar across its lid. It was like a poor, shabby relation.
It stood there in the quiet room, with its lid shut, patient, reproachful, waiting for you to come and play on it.