She was quite tired of the stream of visitors and heard with relief the words of her newfound great-aunt, addressed to her son’s butler. “Mind my smoking?” said Roddy. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. “I have hurt my father,” she said; “I have hurt my aunt. She exhaled, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders and arms. It would surely be only common politeness to drop her a hint—a fellow countrywoman too. She never even graduated high school, and that has been a thorn in her side ever since. But at the word “home” she turned again.
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