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 "It was not until last evening that we decided to come," said Mrs. Northcote. "Margaret had happened to see the advertisement of an excursion, only eight shillings here and back."

"Why not telegraph, my dear?" Northcote expostulated gently. "I would then have met you at St. Pancras."

"It would have cost sixpence," said his mother. "Besides it was too late last night."

"Always the woman of action," said her son, with a hollow laugh. "Always an arbitrary and drastic old woman in the execution of her ideas."

Northcote kissed his mother again with the pride and affection which for the moment overlay this wound.

"I wonder," said she, with an air of one who has come upon something profound, "why men have such a dislike to being taken by surprise. Your father was the same, Henry. He could not bear to be taken by surprise in anything. And I think you are wonderfully like your father in some things."

"What is your opinion of this room of mine?" said her son abruptly.

"I don't think I like it," she said decisively, after making a catalogue of everything with an immensely critical glance. "It has a dismal look. And a hole in the roof, I declare! You must have it mended at once; it might help you to catch a cold. And you are right up at the top just under the tiles; I should think you must get frozen in winter. And it must be extremely draughty with those cracks in the door. And, my dear boy, I must say it looks very bare and untidy with not even a piece of carpet to the floor. I have meant for years