The door opened—Katherine entered. She looked at Philip, smiled, then came across to her father and put her arm through his. She said nothing, but was radiant; her father felt her hand tremble as it touched his, and that suddenly moved him as, perhaps, nothing had ever moved him before.
“Do you want to marry him?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered.
“But you hardly know him.”
“I know him very well indeed,” she said, looking at Philip’s eyes.
“But I don’t want you to marry anyone,” her father went on. “We were all very nice as we were.... What’ll you do if I say you’re not to marry him?”
“You won’t say that,” she answered, smiling at him.
“What do you want to marry him for?” he asked. “He’s just an ordinary young man. You don’t know him,” he repeated, “you can’t yet, you’ve seen so little of him. Then you’ll upset us all here very much—it will be very unpleasant for everybody. Do you really think it’s worth it?”
Katherine laughed. “I don’t think I can help it, father,” she answered.
Deep in Trenchard’s consciousness was the conviction, very common to men of good digestion over fifty, that had he been God he would have managed the affairs of the world very agreeably for everybody. He had not, often, been in the position of absolute power, but that was because he had not often taken the trouble to come out of his comfortable shelter and see what people were doing. He felt now that he could be Jove for a quarter of an hour without any discomfort to himself—a very agreeable feeling.