Mr. Westcott had aged a great deal during the last month. His hair was touched with grey, there were dark lines under his eyes, his cheeks were sunken, his lip trembled. He was looking moodily at the cloth, crumbling his bread. He did not hear Peter's remark, but continued his argument with Mrs. Pascoe: “It wasn't cooked, I tell you--you're growing as slack as Hell.” “Your precious son 'as got something as 'e would like to say to yer,” remarked that pleasant woman grimly. Peter repeated his remark. His father grasped it but slowly--at last he said: “Damn you, what are you talking about?” “I'm leaving here and going to London to-morrow.” Mr. Westcott turned his bloodshot eyes in the direction of the fire-place--“Curse it, I can't see straight. You young devil--I'll do for you--” all this said rather sullenly and as though he were speaking to himself. Peter, having delivered his news, passed Mrs. Pascoe's broad body, and moved to the doorway. He turned with his hand on the door. “I'm glad I'm going,” he said, “you've always bullied me, and I've always hated you. You killed my mother and she was a good woman. You can have this house to yourself--you and grandfather--and that woman--” he nodded contemptuously at Mrs. Pascoe, who was staring at him fiercely. His grandfather was fast asleep beneath the cushions. “Damn you,” said Mr. Westcott very quietly. “You've always been ungrateful--I didn't kill your mother, but she was always a tiresome, crying woman.” He stopped crumbling the bread and suddenly picked up a table knife and hurled it at Peter. His hand was trembling, and the knife quivering, was fastened to the door. Mrs. Pascoe gasped, “Gawd 'elp us!” Peter quietly closed the door behind him and went up to his room. He was in no way disturbed by this interview. His relations with his father were not of the things that now mattered. They had mattered before his mother died. They had mattered whilst his father had been somebody strong and terrible. Even at the funeral how splendid he had seemed! But this trembling creature who drank whisky with the cook was some one who concerned Peter not at all--something like the house, to be left behind. There was an old black bag that had held his things in the Dawson's days--it held his things now. Not a vast number--only the black suit beside the blue serge one that he was going to wear, some under-linen, a sponge, and a toothbrush, the books and an old faded photograph of his mother as a girl. Nothing like that white face that he had seen, this photograph, old, yellow, and faded, but a girl laughing and beautiful--after all, his most precious possession. Then, when the bag was packed, he sat on the bed, swung his legs, and thought about everything. He was nearly eighteen, nearly a man, and as hard as rock. He could feel the muscles swelling, there was no fat about him, he was sound all over.