She had a mottled face and mottled arms, her sleeves just now being turned up to the elbow.
"It was nothing particular, Mr.Frederick," replied Rachel.
"Roy is gone, is he not ?" he continued to Rachel.
"Yes, sir." "Rachel," interposed the housekeeper, "are those things not ready yet, in the laundry ?" "Not quite.

In a quarter of an hour, they say." The housekeeper, with a word of impatience at the laundry's delay, went out and crossed the yard towards it.

Frederick Massingbird turned again to Rachel.
"Roy seemed to be grumbling at you." "He accused me of being the cause of his son's going away.

He thinks I ought to have noticed him." Frederick Massingbird made no reply.

He raised his finger and gently rubbed it round and round the mark upon his cheek: a habit he had acquired when a child, and they could not entirely break him of it.