“And your father’s reason for doing this—That is to say, when you asked him his reason, all he said was that it’s a new century?” She ended the question on a note of incredulity.

“That’s the size of it,” Eliot answered. “But we can’t figure out what he meant.”

“I’m not surprised. Who could figure out such a riddle?” She raised the cup to her lips with both hands. “Has your father been himself lately?”

Again, they traded glances, Eliot’s and Drew’s conferring upon Nathaniel the decision to answer or not. He confined his reply to a tentative shrug.

“I see. Very well, I won’t ask for the details. It is your family, after all.”

“First off, we thought it was our mother, that he was worried about her,” Eliot said. “She’s in Boston right now. She’s been sick.”

“Yes, I know. I got a letter from her day before yesterday.”

“You did?”

“Why so surprised, Eliot? Liza and I are thick as thieves, you know that.”

“What did she say? Is she all right?”—Drew, leaning forward eagerly. “Father said he’d got a wire from Dr. Matthews that she was all right, but we weren’t sure if … We didn’t know if maybe he was holding something back from us.”

Gertrude graced him with a maternal smile, tousled his hair.

“Your mother would be pleased to see how concerned you are, Andrew. Your father wasn’t holding anything back. She is recovering nicely, and she told me that she feels terribly guilty, not having written to you boys. She simply wasn’t up to it. She promises to send you a good long letter very soon. Why I imagine it’s in the mails this very moment. Did I hear you say that Dr. Matthews sent the telegram? Has Dr. Matthews seen her?”

The question puzzled all three. Nathaniel replied that Dr. Matthews was their family doctor, who else would have seen her?

And that appeared to puzzle Mrs. Williams; she frowned and rubbed the crease between her eyebrows with her thumb.

“Your mother was being treated by a different doctor, a specialist.…” She hesitated. “Have you boys been told anything about her condition?”

“That it’s some kind of—a sort of—a female problem”—Eliot, ill at ease about speaking this way to a woman. “That’s all Father would say about it. That’s all he knew.”

Mrs. Williams studied him for a moment or two with a slightly sidelong look, and then, her bronze brows lifting, she asked:

“And you’re quite sure about that?”

“It’s what he said. A female problem. Do you know what it is?”