Philip himself, as a boy, had been keenly conscious of these defects.  Sometimes when he had been bullied or hustled about at school he would retire to his cubicle and examine his features in a looking-glass, and he would sigh and say, “It is a weak face.  I shall never carve a place for myself in the world.”  But as years went on he became either less self-conscious or more self-satisfied.  The world, he found, made a niche for him as it did for every one.  Decision of character might come later—­or he might have it without knowing.  At all events he had got a sense of beauty and a sense of humour, two most desirable gifts.  The sense of beauty developed first.  It caused him at the age of twenty to wear parti-coloured ties and a squashy hat, to be late for dinner on account of the sunset, and to catch art from Burne-Jones to Praxiteles.  At twenty-two he went to Italy with some cousins, and there he absorbed into one aesthetic whole olive-trees, blue sky, frescoes, country inns, saints, peasants, mosaics, statues, beggars.  He came back with the air of a prophet who would either remodel Sawston or reject it.  All the energies and enthusiasms of a rather friendless life had passed into the championship of beauty.

In a short time it was over.  Nothing had happened either in Sawston or within himself.  He had shocked half-a-dozen people, squabbled with his sister, and bickered with his mother.  He concluded that nothing could happen, not knowing that human love and love of truth sometimes conquer where love of beauty fails.

A little disenchanted, a little tired, but aesthetically intact, he resumed his placid life, relying more and more on his second gift, the gift of humour.  If he could not reform the world, he could at all events laugh at it, thus attaining at least an intellectual superiority.  Laughter, he read and believed, was a sign of good moral health, and he laughed on contentedly, till Lilia’s marriage toppled contentment down for ever.  Italy, the land of beauty, was ruined for him.  She had no power to change men and things who dwelt in her.  She, too, could produce avarice, brutality, stupidity—­and, what was worse, vulgarity.  It was on her soil and through her influence that a silly woman had married a cad.  He hated Gino, the betrayer of his life’s ideal, and now that the sordid tragedy had come, it filled him with pangs, not of sympathy, but of final disillusion.

The disillusion was convenient for Mrs. Herriton, who saw a trying little period ahead of her, and was glad to have her family united.

“Are we to go into mourning, do you think?” She always asked her children’s advice where possible.

Harriet thought that they should.  She had been detestable to Lilia while she lived, but she always felt that the dead deserve attention and sympathy.  “After all she has suffered.  That letter kept me awake for nights.  The whole thing is like one of those horrible modern plays where no one is in ‘the right.’  But if we have mourning, it will mean telling Irma.”