"My dear Edward, what are you thinking about! Remove into another house--and a smaller one, too--when only last spring this one was fitted throughout with new carpets and blinds? Think of the waste of money--I will not speak of the laceration of my feelings--which such a step would involve. This house has associations for me such as--as no other house ever could have. But--but that, of course, matters to nobody but myself." Mrs. Hazeldine began to whimper in a gentle but aggravating way. Edward got up and walked to the window and stood there, turning over the keys and money in his pocket. "And then, again, what chance would Fanny have of getting well married, if we were to go and live in some little cottage, which in all probability would swarm with earwigs and black beetles?" "My dear mother, pray don't say another word about it." But if he thought he was going to get off so easily, he was mistaken. "Just, too, as I am getting round me a circle of friends such as I never had in your poor father's lifetime! Lady Glendoyle, and Mrs. Gore-Bandon, and others. What would they think if I were to bury myself alive in the way you want me to? I might almost as well go and live in one of the parish almshouses. I consider it most unkind of you even to suggest such a thing." Edward ground his teeth, but refrained from any reply. He had wound Mrs. Hazeldine up, and there was nothing for it but to let her run down of her own accord. Presently he remembered an appointment, and took a hurried leave. Although nothing more was said about the widow's removal to a smaller house, her son's strong will prevailed over her weak one as far as money matters were concerned. The twelve thousand pounds were invested in accordance with Edward's suggestion, and Mrs. Hazeldine tried to derive consolation from the fact that none of her fine acquaintances would know how very limited was her income. Naturally, she told herself, if they thought of the matter at all, they would put her income down as being at least twice the amount it actually was. It was with a very strange feeling that John Brancker woke up on the morning of the day after his interview with Mr. Avison, and called to mind the fact that he had no office to go to, nor any work to do. "I feel like a fish out of water, and not a bit like a gentleman of ease and leisure," said John at breakfast next morning, with a little rueful laugh. "Now that I have got back home and am among my old familiar surroundings, all that has happened during the last three months seems almost as if it had never been. More than once this morning I have caught myself looking at the clock, under the impression that it would soon be time to set off; and on coming down stairs I began to brush my hat in the hall just as I used to do every morning." "After all you have gone through of late, dear, you must give yourself a month's holiday at the very least, before you even begin to think of looking out for another situation."