‘I’ve nothing to do neither with you nor ‘Arry nor Alice,’ answered the old woman stubbornly. ‘If ‘Arry disgraces his name, he won’t be the first as has done it. I done my best to bring you all up honest, but that was a long time ago, and things has changed. You’re old enough to go your own ways, an’ your ways isn’t mine. I told you how it ‘ud be, an’ the only mistake I made was comin’ to live here at all. Now I can’t be left alone, an’ I’ll go. You’ve no call to tell me a second time.’ It was a long, miserable wrangle, lasting half an hour, before a possibility of agreement presented itself. Richard at length ceased to recriminate, and allowed his mother to talk herself to satiety. He then said: ‘I’m thinking of giving up this house, mother. What I want to know is, whether it would please you to go back to the old place again? I ask you because I can think of ud other way for putting you in comfort. You must say and think what you like, only just answer me the one question as I ask it--that is, honestly and good-temperedly. I shall have to take ‘Arry away with me; I can’t let him go to the dogs without another try to keep him straight. Alice ‘ll have to go with me too, at all events for a time. Whether we like it or not, she’ll have to accustom herself to new ways, and I see my way to helping her. I don’t know whether you’ve been told that Mrs. Chattaway’s been living in the house since the others went away. The furniture’s just as you left it; I dare say you’d feel it like going home again.’ ‘They’ve gone, have they?’ Mrs. Mutimer asked, as if unwilling to show the interest which this proposal had excited in her. ‘Yes, they went more than a month ago. We put Mrs. Chattaway in just to keep the place in order. I look on the house as yours. You might let Mrs. Chattaway stay there still, perhaps; but that’s just as you please. You oughtn’t to live quite alone.’ Mrs. Mutimer did not soften, but, after many words, Richard understood her to agree to what he proposed. She had stood all through the dialogue; now at length she moved to a seat, and sank upon it with trembling limbs. Richard wished to go, but had a difficulty in leaving abruptly. Darkness had fallen whilst they talked; they only saw each other by the light of the fire. ‘Am I to come and see you or not, mother, when you get back to the old quarters?’ She did not reply. ‘You won’t tell me?’ ‘You must come or stay away, as it suits you,’ she said, in a tone of indifference. ‘Very well, then I shall come, if it’s only to tell you about ‘Arry and Alice. And now will you let Alice come up and have some tea with you?’ There was no answer. ‘Then I’ll tell her she may,’ he said kindly, and went from the room. He found Alice in the drawing-room, and persuaded her to go up.