“In a place like this,” Edwin thought, “people never change.” It was a ripping, placid sort of existence, in which nothing ever happened, but all things were just simple and serious and tender like the eyes of the little girl named Eva who had brought him his tea. “Good-evening, sir,” said the old man at the door. It was rather nice to be called “Sir.” Coasting down the hill into Bewdley, Edwin had all the joy of the state that he called “the after-tea feeling.” It was exhilarating and splendid: and at the end of it came the misty river town with its stone bridge and the great river of the Marches swirling proudly to the south. When he neared home, divinely tired and hungry, the black-country stretched before him in a galaxy of starry lights. As he crossed the brow of the hill above Halesby, the Willis’ Mawne furnaces suddenly lit the sky with a great flower of fire. II At home, Auntie Laura was in possession. Evidently she was primed with serious business; for Edwin could see that his father sat spiritually, if not physically, pinioned in the plush arm-chair. Aunt Laura wore an air of overpowering satisfaction. Evidently she had already triumphed, and she smiled so cheerfully at Edwin that he felt convinced that she had scored him off in some way. On the side of the fire opposite to his father Uncle Albert sat smoking, not as if he enjoyed it, but because it gave him the excuse of an occupation into which he might relapse in moments of tension. “Well, here he is at last,” said Aunt Laura. “We’ve been talking about you, Edwin.” Edwin had guessed as much. “Well, what is it?” he said, and his tone implied that he was certain that some dark scheme had been launched against his peace of mind. Uncle Albert puffed uncomfortably at his pipe and nicotine or saliva made a gurgling noise in it. Mr. Ingleby sighed. Aunt Laura, tumbling to the hostility of the new atmosphere, hastened to propitiate. “I expect you’re hungry, Edwin,” she said. . . . “No. . . . I’m not hungry, thanks. What is it?” “You needn’t be cross, Edwin. . . . We’ve decided. . . .” So it was all arranged. . . . “We’ve decided that your father must go away for a rest . . . a little holiday. . . .” “Yes. . . . And that means, of course, that we shall have to shut up the house until he returns, and of course that will be quite easy, because it’s time you were getting back to St. Luke’s. We thought you had better go on Monday.” “Monday?” It was now Saturday. “Yes. . . . Monday. It is fortunate that your uncle has to go into North Bromwich on business that day. . .” “Yes. . . . Yes. . . Business,” put in Uncle Albert, as though he were anxious to explain that his visit to that sink of iniquity was in no way connected with pleasure. Edwin burned with sudden and quite unreasonable indignation. “And you agreed to this, father?”