Stoner kept rigidly to those portions of the house which seemed to
have been allotted to him by a tacit treaty of delimitation. When
he took part in the farm-work it was as one who worked under
orders and never initiated them. Old George, the roan cob, and
Bowker's pup were his sole companions in a world that was
otherwise frostily silent and hostile. Of the mistress of the
farm he saw nothing. Once, when he knew she had gone forth to
church, he made a furtive visit to the farm parlour in an
endeavour to glean some fragmentary knowledge of the young man
whose place he had usurped, and whose ill-repute he had fastened
on himself. There were many photographs hung on the walls, or
stuck in prim frames, but the likeness he sought for was not among
them. At last, in an album thrust out of sight, he came across
what he wanted. There was a whole series, labelled "Tom," a podgy
child of three, in a fantastic frock, an awkward boy of about
twelve, holding a cricket bat as though he loathed it, a rather
good-looking youth of eighteen with very smooth, evenly parted
hair, and, finally, a young man with a somewhat surly dare-devil
expression. At this last portrait Stoner looked with particular
interest; the likeness to himself was unmistakable.
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