"I shall write to your grandfather in the morning," said Martin,
with almost comical gravity and an unconscious touch of patronage.
How childlike the old are to the very young!

"That will be nice of you," answered Joan. "We'll be very kind to
him, won't we? There'll be no one to read the papers to him now."

"He was a great chap once," said Martin. "My father liked him
awfully."

She swung her hair free and turned her chair a little. "You must
tell me what he said about him, in the morning. Heigh-ho, I'm so
sleepy."

Martin got up and went to see if the windows were all open. "They'll
call us at eight," he said, "unless you'd like it to be later."

Joan went to the door and opened it and held out her hand. "Eight's
good," she said. "Good night, Marty."

The boy looked at the little open hand with its long fingers, and at
his wife, who seemed so cool and sweet and friendly. What did she
mean?

He asked her, with an odd catch in his voice.

And she gave him the smile of a tired child. "Just that, old boy.
Good night."