"Come in!" called the old lady, who had long ago recognized his footfall on the stairs. She was sitting up in bed, with a thick shawl drawn close about her shoulders and a book on her knees.
"What! reading in the middle of the night? Fie, mother."
"I have been troubled lately, dear; it takes an old woman longer to reconcile herself to a change—do you understand? Why, Griff, what have you been doing to your face?"
"I don't look exactly pretty, do I? I've had a lively discussion touching the rights of property, and this is the outcome."
"Poaching again, boy?" sighed the mother. "I had hoped, since you came back—but, there, I might as well try to keep a duck from the water. Let me be doing something to your face, at any rate."
"No, don't bother. I'll get a slice of raw beef and paste it over the eye. I want you to do something else for me, though, mother."
"Well?"
"You have seen me like this before, but Kate hasn't. I was going to leave to-morrow in any case. If I pack my bag now and slip off by the early coach from Heathley, will you make matters right with Kate?"
"But where are you going?"
"Up to North Yorkshire. I had a letter from Framlingham the other day—you remember Framlingham?—he is playing the hermit up there in an out-of-the-way shooting-box of his, and he gave me carte blanche to run up when, and for as long as, I liked. After I leave him, I must put on my time as best I can until the divorce business is through. Mother, you will look after my wife? I hate to leave her. Strangeways may be up to mischief, you know. Don't let her go out alone, will you?"