It was late that night when Edwin reached home. After the huge openness of the Cotswold expanses, the air of Halesby, lying deep in its valley, seemed to him confined and oppressive, and to add to this impression there was a sense of thunder in it. After supper his father went to his writing desk and pulled out a sheaf of bluish, translucent papers which he spread out on the table, and began to study intently. Edwin, sprawling, tired and contented, in the corner, watched him lazily. “Whatever have you got there, father?” he said. “Plans . . . architect’s plans,” Mr. Ingleby replied nervously. “Plans? What for? Surely you aren’t thinking of building a new house.” “Well, not exactly. No . . . I am thinking of adding to this one.” “But that would be an expensive job. Isn’t it big enough for us?” “Yes. It’s big enough at present; but it may not be shortly.” “What do you mean?” Edwin laughed uneasily, for he could not understand this air of mystery. Mr. Ingleby rose from his plans and cleared his throat. The little lamp-lit room immediately became full of an atmosphere of suppressed intensity, in which the tick of the clock could be heard as if it were consciously calling attention to the importance of the moment. “I mean. . . . As a matter of fact, I had intended telling you this evening; but I found it difficult to do so, because . . . because I could not be quite sure how you’d take it. It . . . it may come as a shock to you. I am thinking of enlarging the house because I am proposing to be married again.” “Married? Good God!” A feeling of inexplicable passion choked Edwin so that his voice did not sound as if it were his own. “Yes, I knew it would come as a surprise to you. Probably you’ll find it difficult to understand my feelings. You mustn’t be hasty.’ “Good God!” Edwin’s amazement could find no other words. “You are the first person I have told, Edwin. I’ve thought a good deal about it . . . about you particularly, and I’ve quite satisfied myself that I am not doing you any injustice. In another year I suppose you will be going out into the world and leaving me. Don’t decide what you think too hastily.” He paused, but Edwin could not speak. “If you’ll listen, I’ll tell you all about it. I think you will approve of my choice. I’ll tell you—” “For God’s sake, don’t. Not now—” “Very well. As you wish.” Mr. Ingleby’s hands that held the architect’s papers trembled. He smiled, kindly, but with a sort of bewilderment. “As you wish,” he repeated. And Edwin, feeling as if he would do something ridiculous and violent in the stress of the curiously mingled emotions that possessed him, went quickly to the door and ran upstairs to his room, where he flung himself on his bed in the dark.