every spare inch of space. Nicky subsided into a suffocating mass of silk cushions and feeling alien and unhappy, prepared herself to wait.
She wasn’t left alone for long. The door opened and an elderly woman came into the room. Nicky rose a little uncertainly.
“Mrs. Shand?” she said, and found her hand taken in a firm cool clasp.
At first glance Mary Shand was nothing like the vague picture Nicky had formed of Simon’s mother. She was a big woman with deliberate movements, and she spoke in a slow, pleasant voice with just a trace of north-country accent. The features of her calm face were still fine with a hint of delicacy that was perhaps unexpected.
“You’ve come to see my son?” she said. “He’ll not be long, so sit down by the fire and we will have some tea and biscuits while you’re waiting. I like to have my c u p of tea at eleven o’clock.”
“I’d love some tea,” said Nicky, feeling unaccountably shy.
Mrs. Shand stopped to put another lump of coal on the fire, then with a little brush, tidied up a hearth bristling with brass fire irons.
“I’m glad to have met you at last, my dear,” she said, and, when she had touched the bell, sat down by the fire. “Neighbors should be friendly, don’t you think?”
“I suppose they should, only sometimes it’s difficult,” said Nicky frankly.
Mary Shand smiled, and her smile was like the rest of her personality, a tolerant indulgence toward a world peopled with wayward children.
“You mustn’t mind my husband,” she said. “His bark’s worse than his bite, as they say, but men—especially when they’ve never had time to play in their youth—like to strut a little like small boys.”
Nicky, utterly charmed by her hostess, sat down comfortably o n the floor and hugged her knees to her chin. The tea came Mary Shand talked on as she poured the tea. Nicky began to see that Simon was very like his mother, and she thought that here must lie the answer to what Uncle Hilary had designated the good blood in Simon.
“Where did you live before you married, Mrs. Shand?” she asked impulsively, but Simon’s mother gave her a curious look as if she had read her thoughts and said tranquilly:
“I come of yeoman stock, my dear. My father farmed his own land, and his father before him, and I never had but one party dress until I married John.”
Nicky felt herself flushing a little.
“Oh,” she said, “do tell me about it. When I was a little girl I always wanted to live on a farm and poke the hams in the chimney and eat new bread straight from the oven.”
“If you come up to tea one of these days, I’ll make you a girdle scone,” said Mary Shand, smiling.
She began to talk of her life as a child on the old Cumberland farm, and Nicky had a picture of a great kitchen full of children of whom Mary was the eldest. Mary’s mother was a tiny woman full of darting energy and her six-foot-four husband could recite great slices of Shakespeare with never a book to prompt him.
Nicky was so engrossed that she didn’t hear Simon come in, but his mother looked up at once and saw his raised eyebrows as his glance fell on the girl’s slender body crouched by the fire.
“Miss Bredon wanted to see you, Simon,” she said. “Would you like to go along to the den where it’s quiet? Perhaps when you’ve finished your business, my dear, you’ll stop and have some lunch.”
“Oh, no, thank you,” said Nicky rather hastily and scrambled to her feet. “What I want to say won’ t take very long.”
She faced Simon, and the sight of his grave, faintly quizzical expression made her wish she hadn’t come. Her task wasn’t going to be very easy.
“Well, come along, then,” he said, and led the way out of the room and across the wide tessellated hall.
The den was entirely masculine, with old leather armchairs, guns ranged around the walls and a large ugly office desk taking up most of the center of the floor.
“Won’t you sit down?” Simon
She wasn’t left alone for long. The door opened and an elderly woman came into the room. Nicky rose a little uncertainly.
“Mrs. Shand?” she said, and found her hand taken in a firm cool clasp.
At first glance Mary Shand was nothing like the vague picture Nicky had formed of Simon’s mother. She was a big woman with deliberate movements, and she spoke in a slow, pleasant voice with just a trace of north-country accent. The features of her calm face were still fine with a hint of delicacy that was perhaps unexpected.
“You’ve come to see my son?” she said. “He’ll not be long, so sit down by the fire and we will have some tea and biscuits while you’re waiting. I like to have my c u p of tea at eleven o’clock.”
“I’d love some tea,” said Nicky, feeling unaccountably shy.
Mrs. Shand stopped to put another lump of coal on the fire, then with a little brush, tidied up a hearth bristling with brass fire irons.
“I’m glad to have met you at last, my dear,” she said, and, when she had touched the bell, sat down by the fire. “Neighbors should be friendly, don’t you think?”
“I suppose they should, only sometimes it’s difficult,” said Nicky frankly.
Mary Shand smiled, and her smile was like the rest of her personality, a tolerant indulgence toward a world peopled with wayward children.
“You mustn’t mind my husband,” she said. “His bark’s worse than his bite, as they say, but men—especially when they’ve never had time to play in their youth—like to strut a little like small boys.”
Nicky, utterly charmed by her hostess, sat down comfortably o n the floor and hugged her knees to her chin. The tea came Mary Shand talked on as she poured the tea. Nicky began to see that Simon was very like his mother, and she thought that here must lie the answer to what Uncle Hilary had designated the good blood in Simon.
“Where did you live before you married, Mrs. Shand?” she asked impulsively, but Simon’s mother gave her a curious look as if she had read her thoughts and said tranquilly:
“I come of yeoman stock, my dear. My father farmed his own land, and his father before him, and I never had but one party dress until I married John.”
Nicky felt herself flushing a little.
“Oh,” she said, “do tell me about it. When I was a little girl I always wanted to live on a farm and poke the hams in the chimney and eat new bread straight from the oven.”
“If you come up to tea one of these days, I’ll make you a girdle scone,” said Mary Shand, smiling.
She began to talk of her life as a child on the old Cumberland farm, and Nicky had a picture of a great kitchen full of children of whom Mary was the eldest. Mary’s mother was a tiny woman full of darting energy and her six-foot-four husband could recite great slices of Shakespeare with never a book to prompt him.
Nicky was so engrossed that she didn’t hear Simon come in, but his mother looked up at once and saw his raised eyebrows as his glance fell on the girl’s slender body crouched by the fire.
“Miss Bredon wanted to see you, Simon,” she said. “Would you like to go along to the den where it’s quiet? Perhaps when you’ve finished your business, my dear, you’ll stop and have some lunch.”
“Oh, no, thank you,” said Nicky rather hastily and scrambled to her feet. “What I want to say won’ t take very long.”
She faced Simon, and the sight of his grave, faintly quizzical expression made her wish she hadn’t come. Her task wasn’t going to be very easy.
“Well, come along, then,” he said, and led the way out of the room and across the wide tessellated hall.
The den was entirely masculine, with old leather armchairs, guns ranged around the walls and a large ugly office desk taking up most of the center of the floor.
“Won’t you sit down?” Simon
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