“You see, my lad”—the father took up the explanation—“there was money going out for your schooling, and provisions don’t get no cheaper, and we was both anxious not to touch the little nest-egg we’ve put by. Besides”—with spirit, on noting the crimson look of annoyance on his son’s face—“besides, it’s purely a matter for us to settle. If your mother doesn’t mind going on with the housekeeper work, and if I don’t object to her doing it, why, there’s nothing more to be said.” The tea-table endured a silence of nearly a minute. The two parents examined the pattern of the oilcloth that covered it. “Pardon me,” said the boy, with the new manner acquired at the boarding-school, “but am I to understand that my feelings are not to be considered in the matter?” The mother put out her hand quickly and patted her husband’s arm, upraised to give a gesture that would emphasise his reply. He dropped it, and took a long, loud drink from a saucer that trembled. “We can talk about this,” she said hurriedly, “another time. We shall have a clear fortnight, Henry, before you start work. Say grace!” They bowed their heads, and joined in the Amen. “Did you make some nice new friends at the boarding-school, my dear? We’ve arranged all about your party for the fifteenth, and I think, by a little scrounging and a hand-round supper, we ought to be able to manage twelve. Including us three, that is. If we go over that, there’s always the risk of having the unlucky number, and that spoils everybody’s pleasure. Come along with me, and we can have a good talk over the arrangements whilst I’m tying on my apern. What I was wondering was whether we should have all boys, old friends of yours about the neighbourhood, or whether to invite a few girls. There’s your friend Jessie,” she bustled on waggishly. “We mustn’t let her feel neglected. Always asks after you, Jessie does.” She lowered her voice. “Your father’s got the idea into his head that the boarding-school may have induced you to be high and mighty, and make you look down on them and us. But of course, my dear, I know better.” The boy was leaning against the stout oak door later, as his mother cleaned and hearthstoned the steps; two minutes, she remarked, and her work would be over. In reply to his urgent appeal, she gave a promise that so soon as he began to earn money the work should be finished for good. A lad in a mortar-board came through from the direction of Holborn, and strolled up on the other side, examining the numbers. Attracted by the sound of voices, he crossed over and spoke. “I say, my good woman,” he said, with cheerful condescension, to the kneeling figure, “Number thirty-five, I want. These figures are so confoundedly indistinct. Name, Chelsfield—Henry Chelsfield. Can you tell me where I shall find him?”