“I brought the skates,” he said. “That’s very nice of you. And we’ll take them upstairs in just a moment. First, though, I want you to meet my husband. I’ve told him about you.” Tom followed her across a soft-piled rug and through a wide doorway into a room all warmth and colour and leather chairs and book-lined walls and low lights. A very tall man with grey moustaches and a deep, pleasant voice shook hands with him, spoke of the cold weather, thanked him for coming, and, as Tom backed away, colliding with a table, said he hoped he’d see him again. Tom was glad when he was safely through the library doors once more, and Mrs. Morris, chatting gaily to put him at his ease, led the way up a wide, carpeted stairway so gradual of ascent that one hardly realised one was climbing. Another broad hall, with silvery walls hung with many unobtrusive pictures and furnished with easy-chairs and couches in cretonne, received him, and across this he followed to a doorway. “Here he is, Sid,” said Mrs. Morris. She stood aside to let Tom enter first. “You see,” she went on, “I can’t announce you by name because I don’t know what your name is.” “It’s Tom Pollock, ma’am,” stammered Tom. “Well, then, this is Tom, Sidney. And he’s brought the skates for you to look at. Tom, this is my son, Sidney.” The boy in the easy-chair held out his left hand. “Don’t mind my not getting up, do you?” he asked. “They won’t let me move around much yet. Glad to meet you. I think I’ve seen you over at school.”