“It’s a very hot day,” said Philip, in a voice that was intended for a shout if the old man were really deaf and pleasant cheerfulness if he were not, “really very hot indeed. But this room’s so very cool. Delightful.” Mr. Trenchard did then very slowly raise his head and look at Philip through his glasses. Then very slowly lowered his eyes again. “My daughter will be here very shortly to receive you,” he said. “I’d like to talk to _you_,” Philip said, still very cheerfully. “We’ve not had many talks together, have we? and that really isn’t right, considering that I’m engaged to your grand-daughter.” The old man picked up a magazine that lay on the little table that was in front of him. “Do you ever see Blackwood?” he said, as though he were very politely making conversation for a complete stranger. “It’s a magazine for which I have a great liking. It seems to me to keep up its character wonderfully—most agreeable reading—most agreeable reading.” It was then that Philip, looking up, caught a reflection of Mr. Trenchard’s face in the Mirror. It may have been imagination or it may have been the effect of shadow, or again it may have been nothing but truth—in any case it seemed to Philip that the old man’s expression was an amazing mixture of pathos and wickedness—a quite intolerable expression. Philip made a movement with his hands as though he were brushing away a confusion of cobwebs, then burst out: “Look here, I don’t know whether you’re deaf or not—if you are it won’t matter, and if you aren’t we’ll have a straight talk at last. You can’t move until someone comes in to move you, and that may be a long while yet. You aren’t strong enough to knock me down, so that I’m afraid you’ll just have to stay here for a while and listen.... Of course you know by this time who I am. It’s no use your pretending.” Philip paused and looked, but the old man had not stirred at all. His hands were still pressed into his knees, his eyes staring through his glasses, and, as his delicate breathing rose and fell, one black button shone in the lamplight and faded again. This immobility seemed to stir more profoundly Philip’s anger. “I’m going to marry your grand-daughter Katherine, and of course you hate it and me too. You’re just as selfish as all the others, and more too, I daresay. And you think you can frighten me by just doing nothing except showing you dislike me. But you won’t frighten me—no, never—so you needn’t expect it. I’m going to marry Katherine and take her right away from you all, so you may as well make up your mind to it.”