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don't get on, after all.
    —And do come and sit down, Mister Cohen.
    —You might as well tell him the whole story, Julia.
    —Well, Father was just sixteen years old. As I say, Ira Cobb owed him some money. It was for work that Father had done, probably repairing some farm machinery. Father was always good with his hands. And then this problem came up over money, instead of paying Father Ira gave him an old violin and he took it down to the barn to try to learn to play it. Well his father heard it and went right down, and broke the violin over Father's head. We were a Quaker family, after all, where you just didn't do things that didn't pay.
    —Of course, Miss Bast, it's all… quite commendable. Now, returning to this question of property…
    —That's what we're discussing, if you'll be a little patient. Why, Uncle Dick, Father's older brother, had walked all the way back to Indiana, every step of the way from the Andersonville prison.
    —And after that business of the violin, Father left home and went to teaching school.
    —The one thing he'd wanted, all his life, was to own as far as he could see in any direction. I hope we've cleared things up for you now.
    —We might if he came back here and sat down. He won't find anything gazing out the window.
    —I had hoped, said Mister Coen from the far end of the room, where he appeared to steady himself against the window frame, —I expected Mrs Angel to be with us here today, he went on in a tone as drained of hope as the gaze he had turned out through evergreen foundation planting just gone sunless with stifling the prospect of roses run riot only to be strangled by the honeysuckle which had long since overwhelmed the grape arbor at the back, where another building was being silently devoured by rhododendron before his eyes.
    —Mrs Angel?
    —The daughter of the decedent.

    —Oh, that's Stella's married name isn't it. You remember, Julia, Father used to say…
    —Why, Stella called earlier, you told me yourself Anne. To say she was taking a later train.
    —That name was changed from Engels, somewhere along the way…
    —I'm afraid I'll miss her then, I have to be in court…
    —I scarcely see the need for that, Mister Cohen. If Stella's husband is so impatient he's hiring lawyers and running to court…
    —You're losing a button here, Mister Cohen. Thomas had the same trouble when he got stout. He couldn't keep a crease in anything either.
    —Miss… Bast. I'm afraid I haven't made myself clear. My court appearance today has nothing whatsoever to do with this matter. There is no reason for any of this to ever come into court. In fact, believe me Miss Bast… both of you ladies, the last thing I would wish would be to … to see you ladies in court. Now. You must understand that I am not here simply as Mister Angel's attorney, I am here as counsel for General Roll…
    —You remember back when Thomas started it, Julia? And we thought it was a military friend he'd made?
    —Of course it was James who had friends in the military.
    —Yes, he'd run off to war, you know, Mister Cohen. A drummer boy in the Spanish war.
    —The… Spanish war? he murmured vaguely, braced against the back of the Queen Anne chair before the empty hearth.
    —Yes. He was only a child.
    —But… the Spanish war? That was 'thirty-seven, wasn't it? or 'thirty- eight?
    —Oh, not so long ago as that. I think you mean 'ninety-seven, or 'ninety-eight was it, Anne? When they sank the Maine?
    —Who? That's one I never heard. Do you feel unwell, Mister Cohen?
    —Yes, Thomas ran off right after James did, but he was too small for the war of course. He joined a Tom show passing through town, playing clarinet in the entreact and they also let him look after the dogs, finding livery stables to put them up in. You might have noticed his scar, Mister Cohen, where one of the bloodhounds tore open his thumb. He carried it with him right into the grave, but you're not leaving us so soon, Mister Cohen? Of