Altogether a
dull mail. Mrs. Hignett skimmed through it without interest, setting
aside one or two of the letters for Eustace, who acted as her unpaid
secretary, to answer later in the day.
She had just risen from the table when there was a sound of voices in
the hall, and presently the domestic staff, a gaunt Irish lady of
advanced years, entered the room.
"Ma'am, there was a gentleman."
Mrs. Hignett was annoyed. Her mornings were sacred.
"Didn't you tell him I was not to be disturbed?"
"I did not. I loosed him into the parlor."
The staff remained for a moment in melancholy silence, then resumed.
"He says he's your nephew. His name's Marlowe."
Mrs. Hignett experienced no diminution of her annoyance. She had not
seen her nephew Sam for ten years and would have been willing to extend
the period. She remembered him as an untidy small boy who, once or
twice, during his school holidays, had disturbed the cloistral peace of
Windles with his beastly presence. However, blood being thicker than
water, and all that sort of thing, she supposed she would have to give
him five minutes.
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