She dared not say the word aloud, not even to herself. “Dinner is served, m’m,” said the efficient parlor-maid in the archway, and the worst was over. "I can't help thinking of it, Sir," answered the widow. “A joke! Sir John, if you had presented yourself here an hour ago we should have greeted you in pained silence. “I may not see the Widgetts for some little time, father,” she said. But she disapproved more and more of her own mental austerity. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years.
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