“Oh, you’re going to deny it, I suppose,” said Henry, “but I tell you—”
“No,” said Philip, “I’m not going to think of denying it. I don’t know where you got your information from, but it’s perfectly true. At the same time I can’t see that it’s your particular business or, indeed, anyone’s. The affair’s absolutely done with—old history.”
“No, I suppose,” cried Henry, “it doesn’t seem to be anything to you. You don’t know what a decent family thinks of such things. It’s nothing to you, of course. But we happen to care for Katherine more than—more than—you seem to know. And—and she’s everything to us. And we’re not going to let her—to let her marry someone who’s notoriously a—a bad man. No, we’re not. It may seem odd to you, but we’re not.”
Philip was standing now beneath the Mirror, in front of the fireplace, his hands behind his back.
“My dear Henry,” he said, “it’s extremely pleasant to me to hear that you’re so fond of Katherine—but has it ever occurred to any of you that she may possibly have a life of her own, that she isn’t going to be dependent on all of you for ever?... And as for you, Henry, my boy, you’re a nice character, with charming possibilities in it, but I’m afraid that it can’t be denied that you’re a bit of a prig—and I don’t know that Cambridge is exactly the place to improve that defect.”
Philip could have said nothing more insulting. Henry’s face grew white and his hands trembled.
His voice shaking, he answered: “You can say what you like. All I can tell you is that if you don’t give up Katherine I’ll tell Father at once the sort of man you are—tell them all. And then you’ll have to go.”
At Philip’s heart there was triumph. At last the crisis was threatened for which he had, all this time, been longing. He did not for an instant doubt what Katherine would do. Ah! if they drove him away she was his, his for ever! and, please God, they would never see Glebeshire again!
He was triumphant, but he did not give Henry his mood.
“You can do what you please, my son,” he answered, scornfully. “Tell ’em all. But brush your hair next time you come down to the drawing-room for tea. Even in Russia we do that. You don’t know how wild it looks.... Now, just hand me that book and I’ll clear out. Meanwhile don’t be so childish. You’re going to Cambridge, and really must grow up. Take my advice. Brush your hair, put on a clean collar, and don’t be a prig.”