Presently the picture in the doorway opened its mouth and spoke in a singularly measured, gentle voice.

“You will forgive me, Philip, for interrupting your tete-a-tete, but may I ask what is the meaning of this?”

Philip returned no answer.

“Since your cousin is not in a communicative mood, George, perhaps you will inform me why you are lying on your face and groaning in that unpleasant and aggressive manner?”

George lifted his blood-stained face from the stones, and, looking at his uncle, groaned louder than ever.

“May I ask you, Philip, if George has fallen down and hurt himself, or if there has been an—­an—­altercation between you?”

Here George himself got up and, before Philip could make any reply, addressed himself to his uncle.

“Sir,” he said, “I will answer for Philip; there has been an altercation, and he in the scuffle knocked me down, and I confess,” here he put his hand up to his battered face, “that I am suffering a good deal, but what I want to say is, that I beg you will not blame Philip.  He thought that I had wronged him, and, though I am quite innocent, and could easily have cleared myself had he given me a chance, I must admit that appearances are to a certain extent against me——­”

“He lies!” broke in Philip, sullenly.

“You will wonder, sir,” went on the blood-stained George, “how I allowed myself to be drawn into such a brutal affair, and one so discreditable to your house.  I can only say that I am very sorry,”—­ which indeed he was—­“and that I should never have taken any notice of his words—­knowing that he would regret them on reflection—­had he not in an unguarded moment allowed himself to taunt me with my birth.  Uncle, you know the misfortune of my father’s marriage, and that she was not his equal in birth, but you know too that she was my mother and I love her memory though I never saw her, and I could not bear to hear her spoken of like that, and I struck him.  I hope that both you and he will forgive me; I cannot say any more.”

“He lies again, he cannot speak the truth.”

“Philip, will you allow me to point out,” remarked his father in his blandest voice, “that the continued repetition of the very ugly word ‘lie’ is neither narrative nor argument.  Perhaps you will be so kind as to tell me your side of the story; you know I always wish to be perfectly impartial.”

“He lied to you this morning about the money.  It’s true enough that I gambled away the ten pounds at Roxham fair, instead of paying it into the bank as you told me, but he persuaded me to it, and he was to have shared the profits if we won.  I was a blackguard, but he was a bigger blackguard; why should I have all the blame and have that fellow continually shoved down my throat as a saint?  And so I thrashed him, and that is all about it.”

“Sir, I am sorry to contradict Philip, but indeed he is in error; the recollection of what took place has escaped him.  I could, if necessary, bring forward evidence—­Mr. Bellamy——­”