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.