_He is running his eye down the columns._ PEACEY _leans over the letters_. PEACEY. This is from Jackson, sir. Shall I take it? MR. VOYSEY. From Jackson. . Yes. Alguazils. Mr. Edward's here, I suppose. PEACEY. No, sir. MR. VOYSEY. [_his eye twisting with some sharpness._] What! PEACEY. [_almost alarmed._] I beg pardon, sir. MR. VOYSEY. Mr. Edward. PEACEY. Oh, yes, sir, been in his room some time. I thought you said Headley; he's not due back till Thursday. MR. VOYSEY _discards the Times and sits to his desk and his letters_. MR. VOYSEY. Tell Mr. Edward I've come. PEACEY. Yes, sir. Anything else? MR. VOYSEY. Not for the moment. Cold morning, isn't it? PEACEY. Quite surprising, sir. MR. VOYSEY. We had a touch of frost down at Chislehurst. PEACEY. So early! MR. VOYSEY. I want it for the celery. All right, I'll call through about the rest of the letters. PEACEY _goes, having secured a letter or two, and_ MR. VOYSEY _having sorted the rest (a proportion into the waste paper basket) takes up the forgotten roses and starts setting them into a bowl with an artistic hand. Then his son_ EDWARD _comes in_. MR. VOYSEY _gives him one glance and goes on arranging the roses but says cheerily_. . MR. VOYSEY. Good morning, my dear boy. EDWARD _has little of his father in him and that little is undermost. It is a refined face but self-consciousness takes the place in it of imagination and in suppressing traits of brutality in his character it looks as if the young man had suppressed his sense of humour too. But whether or no, that would not be much in evidence now, for_ EDWARD _is obviously going through some experience which is scaring him (there is no better word). He looks not to have slept for a night or two, and his standing there, clutching and unclutching the bundle of papers he carries, his eyes on his father, half appealingly but half accusingly too, his whole being altogether so unstrung and desperate, makes_ MR. VOYSEY'S _uninterrupted arranging of the flowers seem very calculated indeed. At last the little tension of silence is broken._ EDWARD. Father . . MR. VOYSEY. Well? EDWARD. I'm glad to see you. _This is a statement of fact. He doesn't know that the commonplace phrase sounds ridiculous at such a moment._ MR. VOYSEY. I see you've the papers there. EDWARD. Yes. MR. VOYSEY. You've been through them? EDWARD. As you wished me . . MR. VOYSEY. Well? [EDWARD _doesn't answer. Reference to the papers seems to overwhelm him with shame._ MR. VOYSEY _goes on with cheerful impatience_.] Come, come, my dear boy, you mustn't take it like this. You're puzzled and worried, of course. But why didn't you come down to me on Saturday night? I expected you . . I told you to come. Then your mother was wondering, of course, why you weren't with us for dinner yesterday. EDWARD. I went through all the papers twice. I wanted to make quite sure. MR. VOYSEY. Sure of what? I told you to come to me.