It was an understood thing that on Saturdays, when he had been playing football, Edwin should return by the last train; and so his father did not sit up for him on these occasions. The matter had been settled at the cost of some awkwardness. On the first two or three Saturdays of the football season Edwin had come home late, to find Mr. Ingleby growing cold over the embers of a fire in the dining-room, sleepy but intensely serious, and his tired eyes had examined Edwin so closely that he felt embarrassed, being certain that his face must bear signs of a number of enormities that he had never dreamed of committing. It was the same, unreasonable feeling of guilt that he had experienced at St. Luke’s in the middle of Mr. Leeming’s pitched battle for purity, and the sensation was so strong that he felt it useless to try and hide it. “Why do you look at me like that, father?” he said. The quietude and humility of the little room seem to him as full of accusation as his father’s face. “What do you mean, boy?” “I think you know what I mean. . . . There’s really no need for you to wait up for me like this.” “I like to lock the house up,” his father replied, with a quietness that made Edwin’s voice sound rowdy and violent. “I have always done so. After all, it’s usual.” “You are anxious about me. Why should you be more anxious about me when I come in at twelve than when I come in at six?” “I know you’re passing a critical period, Eddie. . . I’m not unsympathetic. I’ve been through it myself. And naturally I’m anxious for you. I know that a town is full of temptations for a boy of your age. I don’t know what your friends are like. I don’t know what sort of influences you’re coming in contact with—” “But I don’t see why that should make you want to sit up for me. Really, I don’t. What good does it do?” “I like to see you when you come in.” Edwin was uncomfortably aware of this. “But suppose I was drunk when I came in, father—” he said. “I don’t suppose anything of the sort—” “No, but supposing I was. What advantage would there be in your seeing me? What good would it do?” “At any rate I should know that there was a danger.” “Well, if that’s all the trouble, we can soon get over it. I promise you, that I’ll tell you the very first time that I am in the least drunk. Then you needn’t worry about waiting for it. I suppose it’s bound to happen some day.” “I sincerely hope it isn’t, Eddie. It isn’t pleasant to me to hear you talk like that.” “No. . . . I suppose it would be pleasanter if we pretended that nothing of the kind ever happened. But it wouldn’t be honest, would it? I should think it’s the duty of every one to be drunk some time or other, if it’s only to see what it feels like. Surely, father, _you_—” “Edwin, Edwin. . . . Really we mustn’t be personal. You forget that I’m your father.”