He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. This woman, contrary to his custom, he answered. Presently he turned to Courtlaw. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. He was in misery; he was paying for last night's debauch. There are sentimental and traditional deferences and reverences, I know, between father and son; but that’s just exactly what prevents the development of an easy friendship. “She must,” said Mr. “You ought at once—you ought at once to have told her that. He looked at her for a moment in a puzzled sort of way.
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