justice; it was the face of one who feels that if his action has been
precipitate and severe, it has at any rate been virtuous. The full but
clear-cut lips also had their own expression on them, half serious,
half comical; humour, contempt, and even pity were blended in it.
Altogether Philip Caresfoot's appearance in the moment of boyish
vengeance was pleasing and not uninteresting.

Presently, however, something of the same change passed over his face
that we see in the sky when a cloud passes over the sun; the light
faded out of it. It was astonishing to note how dull and heavy--ay,
more, how bad it made him look all in a breath.

"There will be a pretty business about this," he murmured, and then,
administering a sharp kick to the prostrate and groaning form on the
ground before him, he said, "Now, then, get up; I'm not going to touch
you again. Perhaps, though, you won't be in quite such a hurry to tell
lies about me another time, though I suppose that one must always
expect a certain amount of lying from a half-bred beggar like you.
Like mother, like son, you know."

This last sentence was accompanied by a bitter laugh, and produced a
decided effect on the grovelling George, who slowly raised himself
upon his hands, and, lifting his head, looked his cousin full in the
face.

It was not the ghastly appearance of his mangled and blood-soaked
countenance that made Philip recoil so sharply from the sight of his
own handiwork--he had fought too often at school to be chicken-hearted
about a little bloodshed; and, besides, he knew that his cousin was
only knocked about, not really injured--but rather the intense and