In the dining-room his plover's eggs were set invitingly, with some cut bread and butter, and a little whisky at the bottom of a decanter--just enough, as Winifred had thought, for him to feel himself a man.

It made him sick to look at them, and he went upstairs.
Winifred heard him pass, and thought: 'The dear boy's in.

Thank goodness! If he takes after his father I don't know what I shall do! But he won't he's like me.

Dear Val!'.