How thoroughly George Trenchard agreed with that. How lucky for him that he was able to defend himself from so much of that same “imperfect sympathy”. Not that he did not love his fellow-creatures, far from it, but it was pleasant to be able to protect oneself from their too constant, their too eager ravages. Had he been born in his beloved Period, then he fancied that he might, like magnificent Sir Walter, have built his Castle and entertained all the world, but in this age of telephones and motorcars one was absolutely compelled.... He turned Hazlitt’s words over on his tongue with a little happy sigh of regret, and then was conscious that his wife was standing by the door. “Hullo!” he cried, starting up. “Is anything the matter?” It was so unusual for her to be there that he stared at her large, heavy figure as though she had been a stranger. Then he jumped up, laughing, and the dark blue Hazlitt fell on to the carpet. “Well, my dear,” he said, “tea-time?” She came trailing across the room, and stood beside him near the fire. “No ...” she said, “not yet ... George.... You, look very cosy here,” she suddenly added. “I am,” he answered. He looked down at the Hazlitt, and her eyes followed his glance. “What have you been doing?” “I’ve been to the Stores.” “Why, of course,” he said, chaffing her. “You live there. And what have you been buying this time?” “Hot-water bottles.” “Well, _that’s_ exciting!” “Ours leaked.... Two of them, and we’d had them a very short time. I took Millie with me!” “Very good for her. Clear some of her Parisian fancies.” There was a pause then, and he bent forward as though he would pick up the book, but he pulled himself up again. “Katherine’s been out with Philip all the afternoon.” He smiled one of his radiant, boyish smiles. “She’s happy, isn’t she? It does one good to see her. She deserves it too if anyone in this world does. I like him—more and more. He’s seen the world, and has got a head on his shoulders. And he isn’t conceited, not in the least. He’s charming to her, and I think he’ll make her a very good husband. That was a lucky thing for us his coming along, because Katherine was sure to marry someone, and she might have set her heart on an awful fellow. You never know in these days.” “Ah! I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Trenchard, nervously turning her hat over in her hands, “that wouldn’t be like Katie at all.” “No, well, perhaps it wouldn’t,” said George cheerfully. There was another pause, and now he bent right down, picked up the book, grunting a little, then stood, turning over the pages. “I’m getting fat,” he said, “good for all of us when we get down to Garth.” “George ...” she began and stopped. “Well, my dear.” He put his hand on her shoulder, and then as though embarrassed by the unexpected intimacy that his action produced, withdrew it. “Don’t you think we might go out to the theatre one evening—theatre or something?” “What! With the children? Family party! Splendid idea!”