As he waited for her he read the letter. He read it twice, then he put it back in the envelope, quietly, without any change of expression. But he ate no more breakfast, even after the maid had brought the knife and his slippers, and though he had had but a few mouthfuls. At half-past twelve there was an imperious woman’s voice in the house. Meg came to the door. As she entered the room, and saw me, she stood still. She sniffed, glanced at the table, and exclaimed, coming forward effusively: “Well I never, Cyril! Who’d a thought of seeing you here this morning! How are you?” She waited for the last of my words, then immediately she turned to George, and said: “I must say you’re in a nice state for Cyril to see you! Have you finished?—if you have, Kate can take that tray out. It smells quite sickly. Have you finished?” He did not answer, but drained his cup of tea and pushed it away with the back of his hand. Meg rang the bell, and having taken off her gloves, began to put the things on the tray, tipping the fragments of fish and bones from the edge of his plate to the middle with short, disgusted jerks of the fork. Her attitude and expression were of resentment and disgust. The maid came in. “Clear the table Kate, and open the window. Have you opened the bedroom windows?” “No’m—not yet,”—she glanced at George as if to say he had only been down a few minutes. “Then do it when you have taken the tray,” said Meg. “You don’t open this window,” said George churlishly. “It’s cold enough as it is.” “You should put a coat on then if you’re starved,” replied Meg contemptuously. “It’s warm enough for those that have got any life in their blood. You do not find it cold, do you Cyril?” “It is fresh this morning,” I replied. “Of course it is, not cold at all. And I’m sure this room needs airing.” The maid, however, folded the cloth and went out without approaching the windows. Meg had grown stouter, and there was a certain immovable confidence in her. She was authoritative, amiable, calm. She wore a handsome dress of dark green, and a toque with opulent ostrich feathers. As she moved about the room she seemed to dominate everything, particularly her husband, who sat ruffled and dejected, his waistcoat hanging loose over his shirt. A girl entered. She was proud and mincing in her deportment. Her face was handsome, but too haughty for a child. She wore a white coat, with ermine tippet, muff, and hat. Her long brown hair hung twining down her back. “Has dad only just had his breakfast?” she exclaimed in high censorious tones as she came in. “He has!” replied Meg. The girl looked at her father in calm, childish censure. “And we have been to church, and come home to dinner,” she said, as she drew off her little white gloves. George watched her with ironical amusement. “Hello!” said Meg, glancing at the opened letter which lay near his elbow. “Who is that from?”