Henry, white with passion, saw nothing but Philip’s face. Philip the enemy and scorn of the house, Philip the ravisher of Katherine, Philip author of all evil and instigator of all wickedness.
He picked up the book and flung it at Philip’s head.
“There’s your book!” he screamed. “Take it!... You—you cad!”
The book crashed into the centre of the mirror.
There was a tinkle of falling glass, and instantly the whole room seemed to tumble into pieces, the old walls, the old prints and water-colours, the green carpet, the solemn book-cases, the large arm-chairs—and with the room, the house, and with the house Westminster, Garth, Glebeshire, Trenchard and Trenchard tradition—all represented now by splinters and fragments of glass, by broken reflections of squares and stars of green light, old faded colours, deep retreating shadows.
“Oh!” cried Henry! “Oh!”
“Thank Heaven!” laughed Philip triumphantly. “One of you’ve done something at last!”
CHAPTER III
ANNA AND MRS. TRENCHARD
That return to Garth was, for everyone concerned, a miserable affair. It happened that the fine summer weather broke into torrents of rain. As they drove up to the old house they could hear the dripping of water from every nook and corner. As Henry lay awake that first night the hiss and spatter of the rain against his window seemed to have a personal grudge against him. “Ah—you fool—s-s-s—you s-s-s-illy a-s-s-s. Put your pride in your pocket—s-s-s-illy a-s-s.”