"
He looked at her as though he had suddenly remembered something.
"I say--is it true what Amy says, that I woke you up this morning
when I went out by banging my door?"
"I'm sure you didn't.--Amy shouldn't say such things. And if you did
what does it matter? I sleep so badly that half an hour more or less
makes very little difference."
"Well, she says so--" He went on, dropping his voice: "I say,
mother, what's the matter with Amy? Why's she so sick with me? I
haven't done anything to offend her, have I?"
"Of course not. What a silly boy you are, Martin! Nine, ten, eleven
. . . There! that's enough for this evening. I'll finish it in
another day. You mustn't mind Amy, Martin. She isn't always very
well."
The door opened and Amy came in. She was a tall gaunt woman who
looked a great deal older than her brother. She did not make the
best of herself, brushing her thin black hair straight back from her
bony forehead. She had a habit of half closing her eyes when she
peered at some one as though she could not see. She should, long
ago, have worn spectacles, but from some strange half-conscious
vanity had always refused to do so.
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