Erica sighed. There was a silence. She looked out rather sadly at the familiar Oxford Street shops.
“You have not come back approving of the Blasphemy Laws, I hope?” said Tom, misinterpreting her sigh.
Her eyes flashed.
“Of course not!” she said, emphatically.
“Mr. Osmond has, as usual, been getting into hot water for speaking a word on the chieftain's behalf.”
“Did he speak? I am glad of that,” said Erica, brightening. “I expect Mr. Pogson's conduct will stir up a good many liberal Christians into showing their disapproval of bigotry and injustice. Ah! Here is the dear old square! The statue looks ten degrees moldier than when I left!”
In fact everything looked, as Erica expressed it, “moldier!” “Persecution Alley,” the lodging house, the very chairs and tables seemed to obtrude their shabbiness upon her. Not that she cared in the least; for, however shabby, it was home the home that she had longed for again and again in the luxury and ease of Greyshot.
Raeburn looked up from a huge law book as she opened the door of his study.
“Why, little son Eric!” he exclaimed. “You came so quietly that I never heard you. Glad to have you home again, my child! The room looks as if it needed you, doesn't it?”
Erica laughed for the study was indeed in a state of chaos. Books were stacked up on the floor, on the mantel piece, on the chairs, on the very steps of the book ladder. The writing table was a sea of papers, periodicals, proofs, and manuscripts, upon which there floated with much difficulty Raeburn's writing desk and the book he was reading, some slight depression in the surrounding mass of papers showing where his elbows had been.