“Nevertheless it’s possible that older heads—yes, older heads—” “Oh! well! it’s all right,” he burst out, “I’m sick of the thing, and you and father don’t seem to mind anything about it—” “I haven’t told your father,” she interrupted. “Haven’t told Father?” Henry repeated. “No. Father doesn’t think of such things. If everything goes well, as I am sure that everything will, Father will want to know nothing further. I have every confidence in Philip.” “Why!” Henry burst out, “I always thought you hated Philip, Mother. I simply don’t understand.” “There are quite a number of things you don’t understand, Henry dear,” his mother answered. “Yes, quite a number. Philip was perhaps not at home with us at first—but I’m sure that in time he will become quite one of the family—almost as though he had been born a Trenchard. I have great hopes.... Your tie is as usual, Henry, dear, above your collar. Let me put it down for you.” Henry waited whilst his mother’s cool, solid fingers rubbed against his neck and sent a little shiver down his spine as though they would remind him that he was a Trenchard too and had better not try to forget it. But the great, overwhelming impression that now dominated him was of his mother’s happiness. He knew very well when his mother was happy. There was a note in her voice as sure and melodious as the rhythm of a stream that runs, somewhere hidden, between the rocks. He had known, on many days, that deep joy of his mother’s—often it had been for no reason that he could discover. To-night she was triumphant; her triumph sang through every note of her voice. * * * * * The others come in. George Trenchard entered, rubbing his hands and laughing. He seemed, every week, redder in the face and stouter all over; in physical reality he added but little to his girth. It was the stoutness of moral self-satisfaction and cheerful complaisance. His doctrine of pleasant aloofness from contact with other human beings had acted so admirably; he would like to have recommended it to everyone had not such recommendation been too great a trouble. He was never, after this evening, to be aloof again, but he did not know that. “Well, well,” he cried. “Punctual for once, Henry. Very nice, indeed. Dear me, Mother, why this gaudiness? People coming to dinner?” She looked down at her brooch. “No, dear.... No one. I just thought I’d put it on. I haven’t worn it for quite a time. Not for a year at least.” “Very pretty, very pretty,” he cried. “Dear me, what a day I’ve had! So busy, scarcely able to breathe!” “What have you been doing, Father?” asked Henry. “One thing and another. One thing and another,” said George airily. “Day simply flown.” He stood there in front of the fire, his legs spread, his huge chest flung out, his face flaming like the sun. “Yes, it’s been a very pleasant day,” said Mrs. Trenchard, “very pleasant.”