When he had silently sipped some hot milk, he drew a thick bunch of papers, white and blue, from his bulging breast-pocket.

“Now, Maria Critchlow,” he called, edging round his chair slightly.  “Ye’d best go back home.”

Maria Critchlow was biting at a bit of walnut cake, while in her right hand, all seamed with black lines, she held a cup of coffee.

“But, Mr. Critchlow——!” Constance protested.

“I’ve got business with Sophia, and I must get it done.  I’ve got for to render an account of my stewardship to Sophia, under her father’s will, and her mother’s will, and her aunt’s will, and it’s nobody’s business but mine and Sophia’s, I reckon.  Now then,” he glanced at his wife, “off with ye!”

Maria rose, half-kittenish and half-ashamed.

“Surely you don’t want to go into all that to-night,” said Sophia.  She spoke softly, for she had already fully perceived that Mr. Critchlow must be managed with the tact which the capricious obstinacies of advanced age demanded.  “Surely you can wait a day or two.  I’m in no hurry.”

“Haven’t I waited long enough?” he retorted fiercely.

There was a pause.  Maria Critchlow moved.

“As for you being in no hurry, Sophia,” the old man went on, “nobody can say as you’ve been in a hurry.”

Sophia had suffered a check.  She glanced hesitatingly at Constance.

“Mrs. Critchlow and I will go down into the parlour,” said Constance, quickly.  “There is a bit of fire there.”

“Oh no.  I won’t hear of such a thing!”

“Yes, we will, won’t we, Mrs. Critchlow?” Constance insisted, cheerfully but firmly.  She was determined that in her house Sophia should have all the freedom and conveniences that she could have had in her own.  If a private room was needed for discussions between Sophia and her trustee, Constance’s pride was piqued to supply that room.  Further, Constance was glad to get Maria out of Sophia’s sight.  She was accustomed to Maria; with her it did not matter; but she did not care that the teeth of Sophia should be set on edge by the ridiculous demeanour of Maria.  So those two left the drawing-room, and the old man began to open the papers which he had been preparing for weeks.

There was very little fire in the parlour, and Constance, in addition to being bored by Mrs. Critchlow’s inane and inquisitive remarks, felt chilly, which was bad for her sciatica.  She wondered whether Sophia would have to confess to Mr. Critchlow that she was not certainly a widow.  She thought that steps ought to be taken to ascertain, through Birkinshaws, if anything was known of Gerald Scales.  But even that course was set with perils.  Supposing that he still lived, an unspeakable villain (Constance could only think of him as an unspeakable villain), and supposing that he molested Sophia,—­what scenes!  What shame in the town!  Such frightful thoughts ran endlessly through Constance’s mind as she bent over the fire endeavouring to keep alive a silly conversation with Maria Critchlow.