The flat monotony of the land, clean of fencing, was broken by one spot only, the roof of the Division Superintendent's house on Three--a mere speck, just darker than the ground.

Cutter's house on Four was not even in sight.
That was below the horizon.
As Harran came up he saw his mother at breakfast.

The table had been set on the porch and Mrs.Derrick, stirring her coffee with one hand, held open with the other the pages of Walter Pater's "Marius." At her feet, Princess Nathalie, the white Angora cat, sleek, over-fed, self-centred, sat on her haunches, industriously licking at the white fur of her breast, while near at hand, by the railing of the porch, Presley pottered with a new bicycle lamp, filling it with oil, adjusting the wicks.
Harran kissed his mother and sat down in a wicker chair on the porch, removing his hat, running his fingers through his yellow hair.
Magnus Derrick's wife looked hardly old enough to be the mother of two such big fellows as Harran and Lyman Derrick.

She was not far into the fifties, and her brown hair still retained much of its brightness.

She could yet be called pretty.