This
table, as I saw when I assisted Briggs up the steps into the room, had
indeed borne a well-spread tea. No very acute powers of deduction were
required to decide, from the crumbs on the white cloth and on the
dishes, that there _had_ been bread and butter and jam and cake. Of
these not a vestige (except the crumbs) remained. Briggs and I were an
hour behindhand, and the relatives who awaited the wanderer had eaten
the banquet laid to welcome him: or so it appeared. I have no doubt that
all sorts of delicacies were in the cupboard; the kettle on the hob was
probably on the boil; perhaps buttered toast was in the oven. The fact
remains that devastation was on the table.
However, Briggs did not see the table, and the table's state occupied me
only for a fraction of a second. I was more concerned with the three
people in the parlour and with their reception of my patient. The pale
woman in the chair by the fire was evidently Briggs's wife. She stared
at us, as we entered, but said absolutely nothing. Nor did the other and
slightly younger woman, his sister, say anything. She too stared.
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