EMILY _is a homely, patient, pale little woman of about thirty five. She looks smaller than usual in her heavy black dress and is meeker than usual on an occasion of this kind. The Major on the other hand, though his grief is most sincere, has an irresistible air of being responsible for, and indeed rather proud of the whole affair._ BOOTH. I think it all went off as he would have wished. MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_feeling that he is called on for praise._] Great credit . . great credit. _He makes another attempt to escape and is stopped this time by_ TRENCHARD VOYSEY, _to whom he is extending a hand and beginning his formula. But_ TRENCHARD _speaks first_. TRENCHARD. Have you the right time? MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_taken aback and fumbling for his watch._] I think so . . I make it fourteen minutes to one. [_he seizes the occasion._] Trenchard, as a very old and dear friend of your father's, you won't mind me saying how glad I was that you were present to-day. Death closes all. Indeed . . it must be a great regret to you that you did not see him before . . before . . TRENCHARD. [_his cold eye freezing this little gush._] I don't think he asked for me. MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_stoppered._] No? No! Well . . well. . . _At this third attempt to depart he actually collides with someone in the doorway. It is_ HUGH VOYSEY. MR. GEORGE BOOTH. My dear Hugh . . I won't intrude. _Quite determined to escape he grasps his hand, gasps out his formula and is off._ TRENCHARD _and_ HUGH, _eldest and youngest son, are as unlike each other as it is possible for_ VOYSEYS _to be, but that isn't very unlike_. TRENCHARD _has in excelsis the cocksure manner of the successful barrister_; HUGH _the rather sweet though querulous air of diffidence and scepticism belonging to the unsuccessful man of letters or artist. The self-respect of_ TRENCHARD'S _appearance is immense, and he cultivates that air of concentration upon any trivial matter, or even upon nothing at all, which will some day make him an impressive figure upon the Bench_. HUGH _is always vague, searching Heaven or the corners of the room for inspiration, and even on this occasion his tie is abominably crooked. The inspissated gloom of this assembly, to which each member of the family as he arrives adds his share, is unbelievable. Instinct apparently leads them to reproduce as nearly as possible the appearance and conduct of the corpse on which their minds are fixed._ HUGH _is depressed partly at the inadequacy of his grief_; TRENCHARD _conscientiously preserves an air of the indifference which he feels_; BOOTH _stands statuesque at the mantelpiece; while_ EMILY _is by_ MRS. VOYSEY, _whose face in its quiet grief is nevertheless a mirror of many happy memories of her husband_. BOOTH. I wouldn't hang over her, Emily. EMILY. No, of course not. _Apologetically, she sits by the table._ TRENCHARD. I hope your wife is well, Hugh? HUGH. Thank you, Trench: I think so. Beatrice is in America . . on business.