Philip felt his father’s eyes playing upon him, and shrunk from them. His face had, at the mere thought of the consequences of his chastisement of his cousin, lost the beauty and animation that had clothed it a minute before; now it grew leaden and hard, the good died away from it altogether, and, instead of a young god bright with vengeance, there was nothing but a sullen youth with dull and frightened eyes. To his son, as to most people who came under his influence, “Devil” Caresfoot was a grave reality.
Presently the picture in the doorway opened its mouth and spoke in a singularly measured, gentle voice.
“You will forgive me, Philip, for interrupting your tête-à-tête, but may I ask what is the meaning of this?”
Philip returned no answer.
“Since your cousin is not in a communicative mood, George, perhaps you will inform me why you are lying on your face and groaning in that unpleasant and aggressive manner?”
George lifted his blood-stained face from the stones, and, looking at his uncle, groaned louder than ever.
“May I ask you, Philip, if George has fallen down and hurt himself, or if there has been an—an—altercation between you?”
Here George himself got up and, before Philip could make any reply, addressed himself to his uncle.
“Sir,” he said, “I will answer for Philip; there has been an altercation, and he in the scuffle knocked me down, and I confess,” here he put his hand up to his battered face, “that I am suffering a good deal, but what I want to say is, that I beg you will not blame Philip. He thought that I had wronged him, and, though I am quite innocent, and could easily have cleared myself had he given me a chance, I must admit that appearances are to a certain extent against me——”
“He lies!” broke in Philip, sullenly.