No one was there, as Phil's first glance satisfied him, and he was disposed to hope that Mrs. Brent—he never called her mother—was out, but a thin, acid, measured voice from the sitting-room adjoining soon satisfied him that there was to be no reprieve.
“Philip Brent, come here!”
Phil entered the sitting-room.
In a rocking-chair by the fire sat a thin woman, with a sharp visage, cold eyes and firmly compressed lips, to whom no child would voluntarily draw near.
On a sofa lay outstretched the hulking form of Jonas, with whom he had had his little difficulty.
“I am here, Mrs. Brent,” said Philip manfully.
“Philip Brent,” said Mrs. Brent acidly, “are you not ashamed to look me in the face?”
“I don't know why I should be,” said Philip, bracing himself up for the attack.
“You see on the sofa the victim of your brutality,” continued Mrs. Brent, pointing to the recumbent figure of her son Jonas.
Jonas, as if to emphasize these words, uttered a half groan.