She had just risen from the table when there was a sound of voices in
the hall, and presently the domestic staff, a gaunt Irish lady of
advanced years, entered the room.

"Ma'am, there was a gentleman."

Mrs. Hignett was annoyed. Her mornings were sacred.

"Didn't you tell him I was not to be disturbed?"

"I did not. I loosed him into the parlor."

The staff remained for a moment in melancholy silence, then resumed.
"He says he's your nephew. His name's Marlowe."

Mrs. Hignett experienced no diminution of her annoyance. She had not
seen her nephew Sam for ten years and would have been willing to extend
the period. She remembered him as an untidy small boy who, once or
twice, during his school holidays, had disturbed the cloistral peace of
Windles with his beastly presence. However, blood being thicker than
water, and all that sort of thing, she supposed she would have to give
him five minutes. She went into the sitting-room and found there a
young man who looked more or less like all other young men, though
perhaps rather fitter than most. He had grown a good deal since she had
last met him, as men will do between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five,
and was now about six feet in height, about forty inches round the
chest, and in weight about one hundred and eighty pounds. He had a
brown and amiable face, marred at the moment by an expression of
discomfort somewhat akin to that of a cat in a strange alley.