"What's amiss? Everything's amiss! That Philip—my son Philip!—should write me a—an impertinent letter like that! It's—it's monstrous!"
"For God's sake, sit down, Maurry! You're as bad as Philip himself for restlessness! Now I take this as a very dutiful, filial letter."
"Dutiful be damned!" snorted Sir Maurice. "Has the boy no other feelings than he shows in that letter? Why did he not come down to see me?"
Tom re-opened the letter.
"The mere thought of the country at this season appalled him. What's wrong with that? You have said the same."
"I? I? What matters it what I should have said? I thought Philip cared for me! He trusts I will enliven his house with my presence! I'm more like to break my stick across his back!"
"Not a whit," said Tom, cheerfully. "You sent Philip away to acquire polish, and I don't know what besides. He has obeyed you. Is it likely that, being what he now is, he'll fly back to the country? What's the matter with you, Maurice? Are you grumbling because he has obeyed your behests?"
Sir Maurice sank on to the couch.
"If you but knew how I have missed him and longed for him," he began, and checked himself. "I am well served," he said bitterly. "I should have been content to have him as he was."
"So I thought at the time, but I've changed my opinion."