"Dear Uncle Charles. I'm so glad you were fifteen years younger than Father, or you wouldn't be here to be a comfort to us all."
"The great point in being fifteen years younger than your brother is that you don't have to wear his cast-offs," Charles said.
"He's asleep just now," she said, pausing outside Brat's room, "so you'll be very quiet, won't you?"
Charles took one look at the young face with the slack jaw, the blue shadows under the closed eyes, and the grey haze of stubble, and said: "Walter."
"His name is Brat."
"I know. I wasn't addressing him. I was merely pointing out the resemblance to Walter. That is exactly what Walter used to look like, at his age, when he had a hangover."
Bee came nearer and looked. " Walter's son?"
"Undoubtedly."
"I don't see any resemblance, somehow. He doesn't look like anyone but himself, now."
"You never saw Walter sleeping it off." He looked at the boy a little longer. "A better face than Walter's, though. A good face." He followed her into the corridor. "I hear you all liked him."