The young man lingered as long as he could, consistently with his performance of that duty which he felt must not be deferred beyond luncheon time. It was hardly a good time to choose for the revelation, for Mrs. Turchill was apt to be somewhat disturbed in her temper at the mid-day meal; her patience having been exercised by sundry defalcations discovered in her morning round of the house. It might be that new milk had been given away to unauthorised recipients, or to pensioners who were only entitled to receive skimmed milk; it might be an unexplainable evanishment of home-brewed beer: or that the principal oak staircase was not so slippery as it ought to be; or that the famous pewter dinner-service was tarnished; or a favourite fender displayed spots of rust; but there was generally something, some feather-weight of domestic care which disturbed the even balance of Mrs. Turchill’s mind at this hour. Like those modern scales which can be turned by an infinitesimal portion of a human hair, so the fine balance of Mrs. Turchill’s temper required but very little to alter it. Edgar rode home to Hawksyard in the clear bright winter noontide, feeling as much like a convicted criminal as a young man of pure mind and clear conscience well could feel. He went bustling into the dining-room, rubbing his hands, and making a great pretence of cheeriness. His mother was standing on the hearth-rug knitting a useful brown winter sock—for him, he knew. Those active knitting-needles of hers were always at work for him. He felt himself an ingrate, as he thought of her labour. ‘Well, mother; lovely weather, isn’t it, so wintry and seasonable? I hope you have had a pleasant morning.’ ‘About as pleasant as I can have in a nest of vipers,’ answered Mrs. Turchill, frowning at her work, and intent upon turning a heel. ‘What’s up now?’ asked Edgar, nothing startled by the vigour of her speech. ‘The beer consumed at Christmas—I won’t say drunk, for gallons of it must have been given away—is something too dreadful to contemplate,’ replied Mrs. Turchill. ‘Never mind the beer, mother,’ answered Edgar, still rubbing his hands before the fire, and shifting from one foot to another in a manner that indicated a certain perturbation of spirit; ‘Christmas comes only once a year, you know, and the servants ought to enjoy themselves.’ ‘That’s all very well, Edgar, within proper limits; but when I see them stepping over the boundary line——’ ‘You feel that it’s time to put on the drag,’ interjected Edgar. ‘Of course; very right and proper. Whatever should I do without such a dear prudent mother to look after things?’