“My dear Henry,” he said, “it’s extremely pleasant to me to hear that you’re so fond of Katherine—but has it ever occurred to any of you that she may possibly have a life of her own, that she isn’t going to be dependent on all of you for ever?... And as for you, Henry, my boy, you’re a nice character, with charming possibilities in it, but I’m afraid that it can’t be denied that you’re a bit of a prig—and I don’t know that Cambridge is exactly the place to improve that defect.” Philip could have said nothing more insulting. Henry’s face grew white and his hands trembled. His voice shaking, he answered: “You can say what you like. All I can tell you is that if you don’t give up Katherine I’ll tell Father at once the sort of man you are—tell them all. And then you’ll have to go.” At Philip’s heart there was triumph. At last the crisis was threatened for which he had, all this time, been longing. He did not for an instant doubt what Katherine would do. Ah! if they drove him away she was his, his for ever! and, please God, they would never see Glebeshire again! He was triumphant, but he did not give Henry his mood. “You can do what you please, my son,” he answered, scornfully. “Tell ’em all. But brush your hair next time you come down to the drawing-room for tea. Even in Russia we do that. You don’t know how wild it looks.... Now, just hand me that book and I’ll clear out. Meanwhile don’t be so childish. You’re going to Cambridge, and really _must_ grow up. Take my advice. Brush your hair, put on a clean collar, and don’t be a prig.” Henry, white with passion, saw nothing but Philip’s face. Philip the enemy and scorn of the house, Philip the ravisher of Katherine, Philip author of all evil and instigator of all wickedness. He picked up the book and flung it at Philip’s head. “There’s your book!” he screamed. “Take it!... You—you cad!” The book crashed into the centre of the mirror. There was a tinkle of falling glass, and instantly the whole room seemed to tumble into pieces, the old walls, the old prints and water-colours, the green carpet, the solemn book-cases, the large arm-chairs—and with the room, the house, and with the house Westminster, Garth, Glebeshire, Trenchard and Trenchard tradition—all represented now by splinters and fragments of glass, by broken reflections of squares and stars of green light, old faded colours, deep retreating shadows. “Oh!” cried Henry! “Oh!” “Thank Heaven!” laughed Philip triumphantly. “One of you’ve done something at last!” CHAPTER III ANNA AND MRS. TRENCHARD