"It was getting cold," explained Philip, in extenuation.
"And don't answer back!" bellowed the master of the house. "Don't answer back, or I'll brain you—like—like this!"
He snatched a mediæval mace from off the wall, and, to Philip's intense gratification, proceeded to pound an Etruscan vase into smithereens.
"Who are you?" he continued. "Who are you, to go filibustering all over my house? Who are you, to insinuate your disgusting presence into my kitchen and forage among my household stores?"
Philip, still keeping a hopeful eye on the mediæval mace, considered.
"I'm a boy," he said cautiously.
This eminently reasonable explanation only exasperated Mr. Falconer still further.
"No, you are not!" he bawled. "You are a criminal! Do you know I have a wife and daughter—let alone a staff of young and innocent servants? Supposing one of them had seen you? You might have frightened them all out of their wits—you toad!"
Mr. Falconer stamped up and down the room, plainly meditating further acts of violence. Philip, realising that his host had not yet been taken into the confidence of his wife and daughter regarding the present situation, decided to be cautious.
Presently the fermenting Montagu came to a standstill.