Like axes! It seemed that, of his passion (and she never before had seen passion in his face), he scarcely could speak. He fought for words. When they came out they thudded out. “Do you know where Huggo’s been this past month?” “With the Thorntons, his friends.” “He’s not. He’s lied. He’s been living with some blackguard friend in rooms in Turnhampton, in Buckinghamshire.” “Harry! Doing what? Land-work?” “Land-work! Loafing! Drinking!” “Drinking? Huggo?” “Listen to me. This is what I’ve come to. This is what that boy’s come to. I had to go down to this place Turnhampton about a spy they’d arrested. He was to come up in the police court there this morning. They took the other cases first. Court going to be cleared for my man. I sat there, waiting. The second case--this is what I’ve come to--was my son, my boy, Huggo, brought up from the cells where he’d spent the night. My son! Drunk and disorderly. He didn’t see me. The police gave him a character. I sat there and listened to it. My son! A visitor, the police described him. Supposed to be working on some farm. Not a desirable character in the village. My son! Always loafing about. Always in the inn. Last night drunk. Assaulted the landlady. My son! Arrested. My son!” He turned away. She cried, “Harry! What happened?” He turned on her in a violence renewed. “I declare to you that if he had gone to prison I would not have raised a hand to stop him. He’d had the grace--or he’d all the time had the guile--to give an assumed name. Would I have confessed, to save him, that he was my son? I believe I couldn’t. He got off with a fine. I got hold of him. I’ve brought him back. He’s here.” She went to the bell. “I must get you some food.” He stayed her. “Food! I’ll tell you what to get me. I’ll tell you what to get that boy. Get me a home. Get him a home. That’s what’s caused this. Do you know what he said to me coming up in the train? I said to him, ‘Why are you always away like this? Why, in the holidays, are you never at home?’ He said, ‘What home is there for me to come to? Who’s ever there?’ He’s right. Who is? Are you?” She said quietly, “Harry, not now. Dear, you are not yourself.” He was not and continued not to be. “Well, answer my question. Are you ever in the home?” She implored, “Oh, my dear!” He was not to be placated. “Where is the home?” “Harry!” “Where’s Doda?” She began in her spirit to move. “Staying with friends.” “Where’s Benji?” “You perfectly well know. Staying with friends.” “Where are you?” She put her hand to her bosom. “Oh, beware me, Harry. Here.” “For the night. Are you ever in the children’s home?” “Are you?” “That sophistry! I have my work!” “I’ve mine.” He smote his hand upon the mantelshelf by which he stood and turned and left the room. Strike on!