But he had an amazing number of things to think about and the solicitor's office was the barest background for his chasing thoughts. He spoke to no one of his approaching freedom--but the thought of it hung in rich and burning colour ever at the back of his thoughts. Meanwhile the changing developments at Scaw House were of a nature to frighten any boy who was compelled to share in them. It could not be denied that Mr. Westcott had altered very strangely since his wife's death. The grim place with its deserted garden had never seen many callers nor friendly faces but the man with the milk, the boy with the butcher's meat, the old postman with the letters stayed now as brief a time over their business as might be and hurried down the grass-grown paths with eager haste. Since the departure of the invaluable Mrs. Trussit a new order reigned--red-faced Mrs. Pascoe, her dress unfastened, her hair astray, her shoes at heel, her speech thick and uncertain, was queen of the kitchen, and indeed of other things had they but known all. But to Peter there was more in this than the arrival of Mrs. Pascoe. With every day his father was changing--changing so swiftly that when Peter's mother had been buried only a month, that earlier Mr. Westcott, cold, stern, reserved, terrible, seemed incredible; he was terrible now but with how different a terror. To Peter this new figure was a thing of the utmost horror. He had known how to brace himself for that other authority--there had, at any rate, been consistency and even a kind of chiselled magnificence in that stiff brutality--now there was degradation, crawling devilry, things unmentionable.... This new terror broke upon him at supper two nights after he had first spoken about London. The meal had not been passed, as usual, in silence. His father had talked strangely to himself--his voice was thick, and uncertain--his hand shook as he cut the bread. Mrs. Pascoe had come, in the middle of the meal, to give food to the old grandfather who displayed his usual trembling greed. She stood with arms akimbo, watching them as they sat at table and smiling, her coarse face flushed. “Pudding,” said Mr. Westcott. “Ye'll be 'aving the pudding when it's ready,” says she. “Damn” from Mr. Westcott but he sits still looking at the table-cloth and his hand shaking. To Peter this new thing was beyond all possibility horrible. This new shaking creature-- “I didn't kill her, you know, Peter,” Mr. Westcott says quite smoothly, when the cloth had been cleared and they are alone. And then suddenly, “Stay where you are--I have stories to tell you.”