The others come in. George Trenchard entered, rubbing his hands and laughing. He seemed, every week, redder in the face and stouter all over; in physical reality he added but little to his girth. It was the stoutness of moral self-satisfaction and cheerful complaisance. His doctrine of pleasant aloofness from contact with other human beings had acted so admirably; he would like to have recommended it to everyone had not such recommendation been too great a trouble.
He was never, after this evening, to be aloof again, but he did not know that.
“Well, well,” he cried. “Punctual for once, Henry. Very nice, indeed. Dear me, Mother, why this gaudiness? People coming to dinner?”
She looked down at her brooch.
“No, dear.... No one. I just thought I’d put it on. I haven’t worn it for quite a time. Not for a year at least.”
“Very pretty, very pretty,” he cried. “Dear me, what a day I’ve had! So busy, scarcely able to breathe!”
“What have you been doing, Father?” asked Henry.
“One thing and another. One thing and another,” said George airily. “Day simply flown.”
He stood there in front of the fire, his legs spread, his huge chest flung out, his face flaming like the sun.
“Yes, it’s been a very pleasant day,” said Mrs. Trenchard, “very pleasant.”