“Very!” he replied in another short burst of laughter, quickly twisting his moustache again and looking down at his feet. He was twenty-nine years old; had been a soldier in China for five years, was now farming his father’s farm at Papplewick, where Emily was schoolmistress. He had been at home eighteen months. His father was an old man of seventy who had had his right hand chopped to bits in the chopping machine. So they told me. I liked Tom for his handsome bearing and his fresh, winsome way. He was exceedingly manly: that is to say he did not dream of questioning or analysing anything. All that came his way was ready labelled nice or nasty, good or bad. He did not imagine that anything could be other than just what it appeared to be:—and with this appearance, he was quite content. He looked up to Emily as one wiser, nobler, nearer to God than himself. “I am a thousand years older than he,” she said to me, laughing. “Just as you are centuries older than I.” “And you love him for his youth?” I asked. “Yes,” she replied. “For that and—he is wonderfully sagacious—and so gentle.” “And I was never gentle, was I?” I said. “No! As restless and as urgent as the wind,” she said, and I saw a last flicker of the old terror. “Where is George?” I asked. “In bed,” she replies briefly. “He’s recovering from one of his orgies. If I were Meg I would not live with him.” “Is he so bad?” I asked. “Bad!” she replied. “He’s disgusting, and I’m sure he’s dangerous. I’d have him removed to an inebriate’s home.” “You’d have to persuade him to go,” said Tom, who had come into the room again. “He does have dreadful bouts, though! He’s killing himself, sure enough. I feel awfully sorry for the fellow.” “It seems so contemptible to me,” said Emily, “to become enslaved to one of your likings till it makes a beast of you. Look what a spectacle he is for his children, and what a disgusting disgrace for his wife.” “Well, if he can’t help it, he can’t, poor chap,” said Tom. “Though I do think a man should have more backbone.” We heard heavy noises from the room above. “He is getting up,” said Emily. “I suppose I’d better see if he’ll have any breakfast.” She waited, however. Presently the door opened, and there stood George with his hand on the knob, leaning, looking in. “I thought I heard three voices,” he said, as if it freed him from a certain apprehension. He smiled. His waistcoat hung open over his woollen shirt, he wore no coat and was slipperless. His hair and his moustache were dishevelled, his face pale and stupid with sleep, his eyes small. He turned aside from our looks as from a bright light. His hand as I shook it was flaccid and chill. “How do you come to be here, Cyril?” he said subduedly, faintly smiling. “Will you have any breakfast?” Emily asked him coldly. “I’ll have a bit if there’s any for me,” he replied.