The door slammed; books were slapped down on the hall table, and Martin, a boy of twelve, came in. He had the red hair of the woman in the picture, but it was rumpled.

"Go and make yourself tidy," said Delia severely. "You've plenty of time," she added. "The kettle isn't boiling yet."

They all looked at the kettle. It still kept up its faint melancholy singing as the little flame flickered under the swinging bowl of brass.

"Blast that kettle," said Martin, turning sharply away.

"Mama wouldn't like you to use language like that," Milly reproved him as if in imitation of an older person; for their mother had been ill so long that both sisters had taken to imitating her manner with the children. The door opened again.

"The tray, Miss . . ." said Crosby, keeping the door open with her foot. She had an invalid's tray in her hands.

"The tray," said Milly. "Now who's going to take up the tray?" Again she imitated the manner of an older person who wishes to be tactful with children.

"Not you, Rose. It's too heavy. Let Martin carry it; and you can go with him. But don't stay. Just tell Mama what you've been doing; and then the kettle . . . the kettle. . . ."

Here she applied her hairpin to the wick again. A thin puff of steam issued from the serpent-shaped spout. At first intermittent, it gradually became more and more powerful, until, just as they heard steps on the stairs, one jet of powerful steam issued from the spout.

"It's boiling!" Milly exclaimed. "It's boiling!"

 

 

They ate in silence. The sun, judging from the changing lights on the glass of the Dutch cabinet, seemed to be going in and out. Sometimes a bowl shone deep blue; then became livid. Lights rested furtively upon the furniture in the other room. Here was a pattern; here was a bald patch. Somewhere there's beauty, Delia thought, somewhere there's freedom, and somewhere, she thought, he is--wearing his white flower. . .