Nimbly he laid down his hat, knelt on the rug, and in a moment had the fire going. The kindling blazed up, the dry wood caught. A more cheerful light brightened the dusky room. The fire-place was broad and deep, it held three-foot logs. Soon there was a glorious fire.
They sat down before it, in armchairs facing one another. The old man spread his hands to the blaze with enjoyment. His gaze rested on Mary with admiration, then wandered round the room.
"You have a fine place here," he said cheerfully. "How long have you lived here?"
"Ten years, Laurence built the house."
She was scrutinizing him with covert glances, trying to find some resemblance to Laurence.
"Yes, so I heard.... Laurence has certainly done well, remarkably well. I always thought he would—he was a smart boy," said this strange parent calmly.
No, he wasn't at all like Laurence, there was no resemblance in his spare light frame, his long clear-cut face to ... yet there was something familiar in his look. What was it? Something in the way his thick grey hair grew over his forehead, his eyebrows.... Why, yes, he looked like Jim—or was it Timothy? She had a sudden conviction, anyhow, that he was what he assumed to be.
With the assurance that this was a member of the family (however unworthy) the duty of hospitality became manifest. Again she urged him to have something to eat; he declined, but with a certain reservation of manner which led her to say, though unwillingly:
"Perhaps you will have a glass of wine?"
"Thank you—if it doesn't trouble you too much—wine, or a little whiskey—whatever is most convenient."