“I have been looking forward at odd moments to a time when I should be in work, and able to give her a happy home with me, father. It is very hard to come here and find this.”
Old Radcliffe took a long whiff; and, opening his mouth, let the smoke curl upwards. “Have a pipe, Francis?”
“No, thank you, sir. I am going up to my mother.”
As he left the room, Stephen, having finished the police reports, was turning the paper to see what it said about the markets, when his father put down his pipe and began to speak.
“Only a few days, he says, Ste!”
“What?” demanded Stephen in his surly and ungracious tones.
“She’s been ailing always; and has sat up there away from us, Ste. But we shall miss her.”
“Miss her!” retorted Ste, leaving the paper, and walking to the fire. “Why, what good has she been? Miss her? The house’ll have a good riddance of her,” he added, under his breath.
“It’ll be my turn next, Ste. And not long first, either.”
Stephen took a keen look at his father from beneath his overhanging, bushy eyebrows, that were beginning to turn grey. All this sounded very odd.