His hands were thrust deep into his pockets, and since he had characteristically omitted to provide himself with a hat, his abundant brown hair was rumpled and tossed by the wind, giving him an absurdly boyish air.
Arrived at the flagged path which ran the whole length of the house he sent up a Jovian shout, loud enough to arouse the most confirmed of sluggards from his slumbers, and one of the upper lattice windows flew open in response.
"That you, Dad ?" called a fresh young voice.
"Sounds like it, doesn't it ?" he laughed back.

"Come down and give me my breakfast.

There's a beautifully assorted smell of coffee and fried bacon wafting out from the dining room, and I can't bear it any longer." An unfeeling giggle from above was the only answer, and the Reverend Alan made his way into the house, pausing to sling his bath-towel picturesquely over one of the pegs of the hat-stand as he passed through the hall.
He was incurably disorderly, and only the strenuous efforts of his daughter Joan kept the habit within bounds.

Since the death of her mother, nearly ten years ago, she had striven to fill her place and to be to this lovable, grown-up boy who was her father all that his adored young wife had been.

And so far as material matters were concerned, she had succeeded.