Tea was soon over, for everyone talked much less than usual, and then they all scattered with the exception of Timmy and Betty.  Janet had someone to see in the village; Tom persuaded Rosamund that they would still be welcome at the tennis-party; Betty stayed to clear the table.  She, alone of them all, was glad of even this short respite, for, as the day had gone on, she had begun to dread the meeting inexpressibly.  She knew that even Tom—­who had only been seven years old when Godfrey went away—­would be wondering how she felt, and watching to see how she would behave.  It was a comfort to be alone with only Timmy who was still at table eating steadily.  Till recently tea had been Timmy’s last meal, though, as a matter of fact, he had nearly always joined in their very simple evening meal.  And lately it had been ordained that he was to eat meat.  But much as he ate, he never grew fat.

“Hurry up!” said Betty absently.  “I want to take off the table-cloth.  We can wash up presently.”

Timmy got up and shook himself; then he went across to the window, Flick following him, while Betty after having made two tray journeys into the kitchen, folded up the table-cloth.  Timmy might have done this last little job, but he pretended not to see that his sister wanted help.  He thought it such a shame that he wasn’t now allowed the perilous and exciting task of carrying a laden tray.  But there had been a certain dreadful day when...

Betty turned round, surprised at the child’s stillness and silence.  Timmy was standing half in and half out of the long French windows staring at something his sister could not see.

Then, all at once, Betty’s heart seemed to stop still.  She heard a voice, familiar in a sense, and yet so unlike the voice of which she had once known every inflection.

“Hullo!  I do believe I see Timothy Godfrey Radmore Tosswill!” and the window for a moment was darkened by a tall, stalwart figure, which looked as if it were two sizes larger than that which Betty remembered.

The stranger took up Timmy’s slight, thin figure as easily as a little girl takes up a doll, and now he was holding his godson up in the air, looking up at him with a half humorous, half whimsical expression, while he exclaimed:—­“I can’t think where you came from?  You’ve none of the family’s good looks, and you haven’t a trace of your mother!”

Then he set Timmy down rather carefully and delicately on the edge of the shabby Turkey carpet, and stepped forward, into the dining-room.

“I wonder if I may have a cup of tea?  Is Preston still here?”

“Preston’s married.  She has five children.  Mother says it’s four too many, as her husband’s a cripple.”  Timmy waited a moment.  “We haven’t got a parlourmaid now.  Mother says we lead the simple life.”

“The devil you do!” cried Radmore, diverted, and then, not till then, did he suddenly become aware that he and his godson were not alone.