That last luncheon was the strangest meal that he had ever known. So strange because it was so usual--so ordinary! Roast chicken and apple tart; his mother sitting at the end of the table, watching, as she had watched through so many years, that everything went right, her little, tight, expressionless face, the mouth set to give the right answers to the right questions, her eyes veiled.... His mind flew back to that strange talk in the dark room across the candle-lit table. She had been hysterical that night, over-tired, had not known what she was saying. Well, she could never leave his father now, now when he was gone. His flight settled that. "What are you doing this afternoon, Falk?" "Why, mother?" "I only wondered. I have to go to the Deanery about this Jubilee committee. I thought you might walk up there with me. About four." "I don't think I'll be back in time, mother; I'm going out Salis Coombe way to see a fellow." He saw Joan, looking so pretty, sitting opposite to him. How she had grown lately! Putting her hair up made her seem almost a woman. But what a child in the grown-up dress with the high puffed sleeves, her baby-face laughing at him over the high stiff collar; a pretty dress, though, that dark blue stuff with the white stripes.... Why had he never considered Joan? She had never meant anything to him at all. Now, when he was going, it seemed to him suddenly that he might have made a friend of her during all these years. She was a good girl, kind, good-natured, jolly. She, too, was talking about the Jubilee--about some committee that she was on and some flags that they were making. How exciting to them all the Jubilee was, and how unimportant to him! Some book she was talking about. "...the new woman at the Library is so nice. She let me have it at once. It's _The Massarenes_, mother, darling, by Ouida. The girls say it's lovely." "I've heard of it, dear. Mrs. Sampson was talking about it. She says it's not a nice book at all. I don't think father would like you to read it." "Oh, you don't mind, father, do you?" "What's that?" The Archdeacon was in a good humour. He loved apple tart. "_The Massarenes_, by Ouida." "Trashy novels. Why don't you girls ever read anything but novels?" and so on. The little china clock with the blue mandarin on the mantelpiece struck half past two. He must be going. He threw a last look round the room as though he were desperately committing everything to memory--the shabby, comfortable chairs, the Landseer "Dignity and Impudence," the warm, blue carpet, the round silver biscuit-tin on the sideboard. "Well, I must be getting along." "You'll be back to dinner, Falk dear, won't you? It's early to-night. Quarter past seven. Father has a meeting." He looked at them all. His father was sitting back in his chair, a satisfied man. "Yes, I'll be back," he said, and went out.