She took off a pair of shabby and much-mended gloves with that air of resolution she imparted to her lightest action, and insisted on being allowed to make the tea. She measured two spoonfuls of tea from the caddy with great care. “I allow myself three spoonfuls now I live in London,” said her son. “Three is extravagance, Henry, three is not necessary,” said his mother quietly. “One for each person and one for the pot is correct.” “Suppose a friend turns up?” “More can be made. I fear you have formed very bad habits in London.” “We have a surprise for you, Henry,” said the girl gaily. She left the room to fetch a basket she had left at the top of the stairs. “Guess what we have brought for you,” she cried as she produced it. “Butter and eggs.” “How awfully clever that you should have guessed them at once,” she said, with her eagerness sinking into disappointment. “I am afraid I never had any tact worth mentioning,” said Northcote. “It was very stupid of me to have guessed butter and eggs.” “But we have brought you some holly as well,” said Margaret, a little mollified. “Christmas will soon be here.” “I am so glad I was not clever enough to guess holly,” said Northcote. The contents of the basket were unpacked and laid along the books on the writing-table. He had to submit, not without a passage of arms, to having an egg cooked for his immediate delectation. His mother also insisted on being allowed to toast him a slice of bread. “You are spoiling me completely,” said Northcote, being forced at last into making a pretence of eating after his own half-hearted offers of hospitality had been uncompromisingly repelled. By an effort of the will that seemed superhuman to himself he forced himself to swallow a few mouthfuls, yet as he did so he followed the smallest movements of his guests. One eye never left the curtain that ran across the room. Whenever one or the other of his too curious visitors was seen to approach it incautiously he made ready to spring to his feet. The only alleviation to the bareness of the walls was several photographic groups of football-players, over which velvet caps decorated with tassels were suspended. “See that group in the middle?” said Northcote. “Look at it well. That is the finest pack that ever turned out for England. We walloped Wales twenty-nine points to three. Pushed ’em all over the shop. Notice that little chap sitting between my legs. He was a half if you like. Cunning as a trout and quicker than a hare.” “I think, my dear boy, this is perfectly uninteresting,” said his mother, fixing her spectacles and examining the photograph sternly. “This is a stupid pursuit, not only a waste of time, but also a waste of money. It has been the ruin of many young men. One of these days it might even prove to be the ruin of England.”