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.

Philip could not help smiling, for to him it seemed ridiculous.

"You laugh," said his step-mother sharply. "I am not surprised at it.
You delight in your brutality."

"I suppose you mean that I have treated Jonas brutally."

"I see you confess it."