He laughed. "I thought I'd see somebody grown up. Victor said Mary was
dreadfully mature. What did he mean?"
Mamma said she was sure she didn't know.
"What do you do with yourself all day, Minky?"
"Nothing much. Read--work--play tennis with Mr. Sutcliffe."
"Mr.--Sutcliffe?"
"Never mind Mr. Sutcliffe. Mark doesn't want to hear about him."
"Is there a _Mrs._ Sutcliffe?"
"Yes."
"Does _she_ play?"
"No. She's too old. Much older than he is."
"That'll do, Mary."
Mamma's eyes blinked. Her forehead was pinched with vexation. Her foot
tapped on the floor.
Mark's eyes kept up their puzzled stare.
"What's been happening?" he said. "What's the matter? Everywhere I go
there's a mystery. There was a mystery at Ilford. About Dan. And about
poor Charlotte. I come down here and there's a mystery about some people
called Sutcliffe. And a mystery about Mary." He laughed again. "Minky
seems to be in disgrace, as if she'd done something.... It's awfully
queer. Mamma's the only person something hasn't happened to."
"I should have thought everything had happened to me," said Mamma.
"That makes it queerer."
Mamma went up with Mark into his room. Papa's room. You could hear her
feet going up and down in it, and the squeaking wail of the wardrobe door
as she opened and shut it.
She waited, listening. When she heard her mother come downstairs she went
to him.
Mark didn't know that the room had been Papa's room. He didn't know that
she shivered when she saw him sitting on the bed. She had stood just
there where Mark's feet were and watched Papa die. She could feel the
basin slipping, slipping from the edge of the bed.
Mark wasn't happy. There was something he missed, something he wanted.
She had meant to say, "It's all right. Nothing's happened. I haven't done
anything," but she couldn't think about it when she saw him sitting
there.
"Mark--what is it?"
"I don't know, Minky."
"_I_ know. You've come back, and it isn't like what you thought it would
be."
"No," he said, "it isn't.... I didn't think it would be so awful without
Papa."