"Yes," she said, "it is. I was looking for Tupper. He seems to have wandered off again. You haven't seen him, have you?" I shook my head. It had been ten years since anyone had seen Tupper Tyler.

"He is such a restless boy," she said. "Always wandering off I declare, I don't know what to do with him."

"Don't you worry," I told her. "He'll show up again."

"Yes," she said, "I suppose he will. He always does, you know." She prodded with her cane at the bed of purple flowers that grew along the walk.

"They're very good this year," she said. "The best I've ever seen them. I got them from your father twenty years ago. Mr Tyler and your father were such good friends. You remember that, of course."

"Yes," I said. "I remember very well."

"And your mother? Tell me how she is. We used to see a good deal of one another."

"You forget, Mrs Tyler," I told her, gently. "Mother died almost two years ago."

"Oh, so she did," she said. "It's true, I am forgetful. Old age does it to one. No one should grow old."

"I must be getting on," I said. "It was good to see you."

"It was kind of you to call," she said. "If you have the time, you might step in and we could have some tea. It is so seldom now that anyone ever comes for tea. I suppose it's because the times have changed. No one, any more, has the time for tea."

"I'm sorry that I can't," I said. "I just stopped by for a moment."

"Well," she said, "it was very nice of you. If you happen to see Tupper would you mind, I wonder, to tell him to come home."

"Of course I will," I promised.

I was glad to get away from her. She was nice enough, of course, but just a little mad. In all the years since Tupper's disappearance, she had gone on looking for him, and always as if he'd just stepped out the door, always very calm and confident in the thought that he'd be coming home in just a little while. Quite reasonable about it and very, very sweet, no more than mildly worried about the idiot son who had vanished without trace.