He noted the evident preparations for his coming.

There were two eggs lying in a saucer ready to be boiled, a fresh loaf--and this was not the day they got their bread--and a small tin of cocoa beside his cup.

The hearth was piled with glowing turf, and the iron tripod with a saucepan on it stood surrounded with red coals.

Some sense of what Hyacinth was feeling passed into his father's mind.
'Isn't it all right, my son?
I tried to make it very nice for you.

I wanted to get Maggie Cassidy up from the village for the day, but her baby had the chin-cough, and she couldn't come.' He took Hyacinth's hand and held it while he spoke.
'Perhaps it looks poor to you,' he went on, 'after your college rooms and the houses your friends live in; but it's your own home, son, isn't it ?' Hyacinth made a gulp at the emotion which had brought him near to tears.
'It's splendid, father--simply splendid.