“It was to be expected that you would say that. If you mean for the present affair, no; if you mean for general good behaviour, perhaps yes; but it is early days. I may surely take a little licence the first days I am back. There are some of your new clothes,” he added, tossing down a bundle, “and more will be ready in a day or two. I’ve rigged myself out from head to foot. But I wouldn’t have them sent out here. I’m not too fond of an address. I promised to call for them on Saturday.” The poor mother’s heart was transfixed as with a sudden arrow. This, then, would be repeated again; once more she would have to watch the day out and half the night through--and again, no doubt, and again. “There’s Janet as good as her word,” he said, as the sound of her proceedings in the next room became audible. And he ate an immense meal in the middle of the night, the light growing stronger every moment in the crevices of the shutters. I don’t know what there is that is wholesome, almost meritorious, in the consumption of food. Mrs Ogilvy forgot the smell of the tobacco and the whisky in the pleasure of seeing the roast beef disappear in large slices from his plate. “It was a pleasure to see him eating,” she said afterwards to Janet. Yes, it is somehow wholesome and meritorious. It implies a good digestion, not spoiled by other pernicious things; it implies (almost) an easy mind and a peaceful conscience, and something like innocence in a man. A good meal, not voracious, as of a creature starving, but eaten with good appetite, with satisfaction,--it is a kind of certificate of morality which many a poor woman has hailed with delight. They have their own way of looking at things. And thus the evening and the morning made a new day.