sagging where it was of little actual use, sighed deeply. But there
was patience and understanding in her big, dark eyes. "He's in with
Mother doing finances," she said with resignation. "It's Saturday.
Let's sit down and wait." Then, seeing that Maria already occupied the
big armchair, and sat staring comfortably into the fire, she did not
move. Maria was making a purring, grunting sound of great contentment;
she felt no anxiety of any kind apparently.

But Tim was less particular.

"Alright," he said, squashing himself down beside Maria, whose podgy
form accommodated itself to the intrusion like a cat, "as long as Aunt
Emily doesn't catch him on the way and begin explaining."

"She's in bed with a headache," mentioned Judy. "She's safe enough."
For it was an established grievance against their mother's sister that
she was always explaining things. She was a terrible explainer. She
couldn't move without explaining. She explained everything in the
world. She was a good soul, they knew, but she had to explain that she
was a good soul. They rather dreaded her. Explanations took time for
one thing, and for another they took away all wonder. In bed with a
headache, she was safely accounted for, explained.

"She thinks we miss her," reflected Tim. He did not say it; it just
flashed through his mind, with a satisfaction that added vaguely to
his pleasurable anticipation of what was coming. And this satisfaction
increased his energy. "Shove over a bit," he added aloud to Maria, and
though Maria did not move of her own volition, she was nevertheless
shoved over. The pair of them settled down into the depths of the
chair, but while Maria remained quite satisfied with her new position,