'Have you heard about Arthur Twemlow coming over?' she demanded, half
vindictively, as he was preparing to blow out the last candle on the
piano. He stopped.

'Who's Arthur Twemlow?'

'Mr. Twemlow's son, of course,' she said. 'From America.'

'Oh! Him! Coming over, did you say? I wonder what he looks like. Who
told you?'

'Uncle Meshach. And he said I was to say you were to look out for
yourself when Arthur Twemlow came. I don't know what he meant. One of
his jokes, I expect.' She tried to laugh.

John looked at her, and then looked away, and immediately blew out the
last candle. But she had seen him turn pale at what Uncle Meshach had
said. Or was that pallor merely the effect on his face of raising the
coloured candle-shade as he extinguished the candle? She could not be
sure.

'Uncle Meshach ought to be in the lunatic asylum, I think,' John's voice
came majestically out of the gloom as they groped towards the door.

'We shall have to be polite to Arthur Twemlow, when he comes, if he is
coming,' said John after they had gone upstairs. 'I understand he's
quite a reformed character.'

* * * * *