He was the first man Troy had ever seen completely given over to rage. She found the exhibition formidable. If he had not been an old man his passion would have been less disquieting because less pitiable. Old lips, shaking with rage; old eyes, whose fierceness was glazed by rheum; old hands, that jerked in uncoordinated fury; these were intolerable manifestations of emotion.

Troy got up and attempted an inconspicuous retreat to the door.

‘Come back,’ said her host violently. Troy returned. ‘Hear how these people conspire to humiliate me. Come back, I say.’ Troy sat on the nearest chair.

‘Papa!’ whispered Pauline, weaving her hands together, and ‘Papa!’ Millamant echoed, fumbling with the dice. ‘Please! So bad for you. Upsetting yourself! Please!’

He silenced them with a gesture and struggled to his feet. Paul, holding Fenella by the arm, waited until his grandfather stood before him and then said rapidly: ‘We’re sorry to make a scene. I persuaded Fen that this was the only way to handle the business. We’ve discussed it with you in private, Grandfather, and you’ve told us what you feel about it. We don’t agree. It’s our show, after all, and we’ve made up our minds. We could have gone off and got married without saying anything about it, but neither of us wanted to do that. So we thought—

‘We thought,’ said Fenella rather breathlessly, ‘we’d just make a general announcement.’

‘Because,’ Paul added, ‘I’ve sent one already to the papers and we wanted to tell you before you read it.’

‘But Paul darling—’ his mother faintly began.

‘You damned young puppy,’ Sir Henry roared out, ‘what do you mean by standing up with that god-damned conceited look on your face and talking poppycock to ME?’

‘Aunt Pauline,’ said Fenella, ‘I’m sorry if you’re not pleased, but—’

‘Ssh!’ said Pauline.

‘Mother is pleased,’ said Paul. ‘Aren’t you, Mother?’

‘Ssh!’ Pauline repeated distractedly.

‘Be silent!’ Sir Henry shouted. He was now in the centre of the hearth-rug. It seemed to Troy that his first violence was being rapidly transmuted into something more histrionic and much less disturbing. He rested an elbow on the mantelpiece. He pressed two fingers and a thumb against his eyelids, removed his hand slowly, kept his eyes closed, frowned as if in pain, and finally sighed deeply and opened his eyes very wide indeed.

‘I’m an old fellow,’ he said in a broken voice. ‘An old fellow. It’s easy to hurt me. Very easy. You have dealt me a shrewd blow. Never mind. Let me suffer. Why not? It won’t be for long. Not for long, now.’

‘Papa, dearest,’ cried Pauline, sweeping up to him and clasping her hands. ‘You make us utterly miserable. Don’t speak like that, don’t. Not for the world would my boy cause you a moment’s unhappiness. Let me talk quietly to these children. Papa, I implore you.’