He looked at me a little, speculating. “Perhaps we’ve let the question drift too long. Think it over and think it out. We must find a way to independence for you.” “Thank you, sir. You could do me no greater kindness.” “What d’ye mean?” He glanced at me curiously. “I know I’m here on sufferance, sir,” I said. “I know my presence is an open sore to Lady Skene. I’ve long been wanting to ask you something. I think I could find myself sooner, perhaps, if I were given elbow room. With all your liberality, I feel constrained in Evercreech. Let me have the lodge in the Caddle to fit up for myself and live in for the present, and until I’ve come to some decision.” He stared a bit and laughed, and set to scraping his chin, his pale blue eyes measuring me. “You shall have it certainly,” he said suddenly, “for your den, or hermitage, or what the devil you like. But it won’t do to cut the house connection, my boy. You must dine and bed at home. What makes you think you are not welcome here?” “Not my stepfather, sir,” I said. He turned to his papers, and dismissed me quickly; but called me back as I reached the door. “After all,” he said, “perhaps you’re better out of the way just now.” His expression was extraordinarily complex. “Its coming to be the era of pap and flapdoodle--ridiculous, ain’t it, at this date--but----” “Is that so, sir? I congratulate you.” “Thank’ee, my boy. Don’t forget I’ve always liked you; and if circumstances--deuced aggravating things----” He broke off, humming, and, kicking up his dapper feet, looked at his boot tips. “I’ll put some fellows in,” he said hurriedly, “and have the place made fit for you.” “You’ve always been kind to me, sir,” I said gratefully. “I hope I sha’n’t trouble you much longer.” I was going, but he stopped me again. “Trouble be cursed!” he said. “You must understand that your happiness and welfare are my aim. You’re welcome to the lodge for ever, or so long as you’re convinced that they centre in that bogeyish hole. Only don’t let your fancy run on bitterness. Evercreech is your home.” I was conscious of an expression in his face, between joy and mystification, as I left him. It was easy, I thought, to interpret it. Here, after all this interval, was an heir to Evercreech expected, and his lady’s long remissness atoned. The thoroughbred was stretching his neck for home; the encumbrance must clear himself from the course. “Sufferance,” having made the pace for “Welcome,” must withdraw in proper pride of his humble share in the event, and be content to eat his oats in abstraction. Double-distilled nonsense, of course; but a mother’s slight is poison, and that venom was in my blood. Not all the investigations of anatomists can connect the heart with the reason. CHAPTER III. THE LODGE IN THE CADDLE