“Ten minutes behind his time,” said she, looking at her watch; then, in another minute, a lifting of her eyes from the page, and a slight inclination of her head towards the door, denoted that she heard some sound. Presently her brow cleared; and then even my ear, less practised, caught the iron clash of a gate swung to, steps on gravel, lastly the doorbell. He was come. His mother filled the teapot from the urn, she drew nearer the hearth the stuffed and cushioned blue chair⁠—her own chair by right, but I saw there was one who might with impunity usurp it. And when that one came up the stairs⁠—which he soon did, after, I suppose, some such attention to the toilet as the wild and wet night rendered necessary, and strode straight in⁠—

“Is it you, Graham?” said his mother, hiding a glad smile and speaking curtly.

“Who else should it be, mamma?” demanded the Unpunctual, possessing himself irreverently of the abdicated throne.

“Don’t you deserve cold tea, for being late?”