The old gentleman showed no interest whatever in the opening of the door, and continued to stare in front of him through his gold-rimmed eye-glasses, his hands pressed fiercely into his knees. Rocket hesitated a moment, then withdrew, closing the door behind him. Philip advanced slowly into the room. One of his difficulties with old Mr. Trenchard had always been that he was not sure whether he were truly deaf or no. On certain occasions there had been no question old Mr. Trenchard was not at all deaf, and then again on others deaf as a crab! He had never shown any marked signs of being aware of Philip’s existence. There were many weeks that he spent in his own room, and he could not be said to show a very active consciousness of anyone except Katherine, whom he adored, and Aunt Aggie, whom he hated. But, altogether, he was to Philip a terrible old man. Like a silver-grey shadow, beautiful perhaps, with the silver buckles on his shoes, his delicate hands and his snow-white hair, but emphatically terrible to Philip, who throve and blossomed under warm human intercourse, and shrivelled into nothing at all under a silent and ghostly disapproval. But to-day Philip was desperate and defiant. This old man would never die any more than this old drawing-room, reflected in the green mirror, would ever change. “I’d like to smash that mirror,” thought Philip, “smash it into pieces. That would change the room if anything would. Why, I believe the whole family would tumble like a pack of cards if I smashed that mirror. I believe the old man himself would vanish into thin air.” “Good afternoon, sir,” Philip said—and then thought to himself: “Why should I be afraid of the old image? He can’t eat me!” He walked over, close to him, and shouted: “Good afternoon, sir.” The old man never stirred, not an eyelid quivered, but he replied in his clear, silvery voice, “Good afternoon to you.” He might indeed have been an Idol in his old particular temple—the old green room waited around him with the patient austerity that a shrine pays to its deity. The lamp on a distant table flung a mild and decent glow. “I’m damned if I’m going to be afraid of him,” thought Philip, and, taking a chair, he dragged it very close to the other’s throne. Sitting there, near to him, it seemed to him that the light, mild though it was, really did go right through the old fellow, his cheeks, like the finest egg-shell china, seemed to catch the glow, store it for an instant in some fine inner receptacle and then pass it out on the other side. It was only the eyes that were not fine. They were true Trenchard eyes, and now, in old age, they were dull and almost dead. They, ever so faintly, hinted that the beauty, fine as the present glass, was of the surface only, and had, behind it, no soul.