The telephone rang in the next room. He heard his mother's voice in snatches, "Edgar--back. Got here--last train," and he marvelled that she had not flown at him in a passion. She had put her arms round him, with a peculiarly constrained expression in her eyes. He began to regret his conduct more and more, and he would have liked to extricate himself from his grandmother's and aunt's tenderness, to run to his mother and beg her pardon and tell her, by herself, oh, so humbly, that he wanted to be a child again and obey her. But when he rose, with a perfectly gentle movement, his grandmother asked in alarm where he was going. He felt ashamed. If he made a single step it frightened them. He had frightened them all terribly, and they were afraid he was going to run away again. How could he make them understand that nobody regretted his flight more than he did? The table was set, supper had been prepared for him hurriedly. His grandmother sat beside him without removing her eyes from him. She and his aunt and the maid held him fast in a quiet circle, the warmth of which calmed him wonderfully, and the only disturbing thought was that of his mother's absence from the room. If only she could have guessed how humble he was she would certainly have come in. From outside came the sound of a cab drawing up at the door. Everyone gave a start, so that Edgar also was upset. His grandmother went out, he could hear loud voices in the hall, and then it struck him it must be his father who had arrived. He observed timidly that he had been left alone in the room. To be alone even for those few moments made him nervous. His father was a stern man; he was the one person Edgar really feared. He listened. His father seemed to be excited; his voice was loud and expressed annoyance. Every now and then came his grandmother's and his mother's voices in mollifying tones, in attempts, evidently, to make him adopt a milder attitude. But his father's voice remained hard--hard as his foot-treads now coming nearer and nearer, and now stopping short at the door, which was next pulled violently open. The boy's father was a large man, and Edgar felt so very, very thin beside him as he entered the room, nervous and genuinely angry, it seemed. "What got into your head to run away? How could you give your mother such a fright?" His voice was wrathful and his hands made a wild movement. Edgar's mother came in and stood behind her husband, her face in shadow. Edgar made no reply. He felt he had to justify himself, but how tell the story of the way they had lied to him and how his mother had slapped him? Would his father understand? "Well, where's your tongue? What was the matter? You may tell me, you needn't be afraid. You must have had some good reason for running away. Did anyone do anything to you?"