It was market-day; Stephen Whitelaw was not expected home till tea-time, and the meal was to be eaten at a later hour than usual.
The rain increased as the time for the farmer's return drew nearer.

He had gone out in the morning without his overcoat, Mrs.Tadman remembered, and was likely to get wet through on his way home, unless he should have borrowed some extra covering at Malsham.

His temper, which of late had been generally at its worst, would hardly be improved by this annoyance.
There was a very substantial meal waiting for him: a ponderous joint of cold roast beef, a dish of ham and eggs preparing in the kitchen, with an agreeable frizzling sound, a pile of hot buttered cakes kept hot upon the oven top; but there was no fire in the parlour, and the room looked a little cheerless in spite of the well-spread table.

They had discontinued fires for about a fortnight, at Mr.Whitelaw's command.

He didn't want to be ruined by his coal-merchant's bill if it was a chilly spring, he told his household; and at his own bidding the fire-place had been polished and garnished for the summer.