tood idly at the window of his bedroom, watching
the gas lamps of Trafalgar Road wax brighter in the last glooms of
twilight, he was still occupied with the sham and the unreason and the
lack of scruple suddenly revealed in the life of the elder generation.
Unconsciously imitating a trick of his father's when annoyed but calm,
he nodded his head several times, and with his tongue against his teeth
made the noise which in writing is represented by `tut-tut.' Yet
somehow he had always known that it would be so. At bottom, he was only
pretending to himself to be shocked and outraged.

His plans were no further advanced; indeed they were put back, for this
Saturday afternoon vigil in the shop would be in some sort a symbolic
temporary defeat for him. Why had he not spoken out clearly? Why was
he always like a baby in presence of his father? The future was all
askew for him. He had forgotten his tremendous serious resolves. The
touch of the half-sovereign in his pocket, however, was comforting in a
universe of discomfort.

VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER EIGHT.

IN THE SHOP.

"Here, lad!" said his father to Edwin, as soon as he had scraped up the
last crumbs of cheese from his plate at the end of dinner on the
following day.

Edwin rose obediently and followed him out of the room. Having waited
at the top of the stairs until his father had reached the foot, he
leaned forward as far as he could with one hand on the rail and the
other pressing against the wall, swooped down to the mat at the bottom,
without touching a single step on the way, and made a rocket-like noise
with his mouth, He had no other manner of descending the staircase,
unless he happened to be in disgrace. His father went straight to the
desk in the corner behind the account-book window, assumed his
spectacles, and lifted the lid of the desk.

"Here!" he said, in a low voice. "Mr Enoch Peake is stepping in this
afternoon to look at this here." He displayed the proof--an unusually
elaborate wedding card, which announced the marriage of Mr Enoch Peake
with Mrs Louisa Loggerheads. "Ye know him as I mean?"

"Yes," said Edwin, "The stout man. The Cocknage Gardens man."

"That's him. Well ye'll tell him I've been called away. Tell him who
ye are. Not but what he'll know. Tell him I think it might be
better"--Darius's thick finger ran along a line of print--"if we
put--`widow of the late Simon Loggerheads Esquire,' instead of--`Esq.'
See? Otherwi