"You've grown, Roddy. Where's Jill? Hope she can spare me a minute. I suppose she's busy nursing your Mother?"
"Yes." Roddy's smile faded—"she's getting done up, I'm afraid. Sitting up all night, you know. The Mater can't be left alone."
"As bad as that? I'm awfully grieved. Poor old Jill!—and it's rough on you ... Never mind—we must cheer her up. Do tell her that I'm here."
"I'll go now." Roddy paused—"Look here, Peter, I shan't let on that it's you—what a lark! Won't it be a surprise for her." He was off, his eyes shining with fun.
He found Jill in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, her face flushed, leaning over the hot fire, patiently skimming mutton broth.
"You'll have to leave that for a minute. There's someone called and wants to see you. On business, I think," he choked back a laugh.
"Bother," said Jill, "I can't come now."
"Sorry—but I'm no earthly use. Hurry up, there's a good girl."
Jill, with an impatient sigh, pushed the soup to the side of the stove.
"It won't hurt to simmer there." She wiped her hands on a cloth and with her rounded arms bare, an apron over her drill skirt, followed Roddy up the stairs, a frown on her pretty face.