The little man put his head on one side. At the thought of Dora his depression seemed to vanish. As for Philip, he simply stared, failing to live up to such an announcement. It neither surprised nor shocked him, for the whole thing seemed completely unreal, as if he were holding the fantastic conversation in a dream. It was the other thing that was real—the sight of the room in disarray with Mary's handkerchief laid on the table by the hand of Naomi . . . the memory of the sordid bed with the depression in the gray coverlet.
"You don't seem surprised," said his father.
"No. . . . No. . . . Nothing surprises me any more. I suppose if you wanted to have a family out there, it was all right. You can't expect a man to stop living." (He was right then: his father had had a woman out there.)
"But you see, Philip, they're your brothers and sisters . . . your father's children."
Philip made an effort. "How many of them are there?"
Jason's yellow waistcoat swelled with pride. Three boys and two girls, he said. "Nobody can say I haven't done my part in helping the world along. All strapping big ones too. The youngest . . . Emma . . . is thirteen."
"Emma!"
"Yes. I called her after your Ma. I always liked the name, and I always liked your Ma too, when she's not having tantrums."
Suddenly Philip wanted to laugh. The desire arose from a strange mixture of pain and mirth. It was ridiculous.
"The others are Jason, Henry, Hector and Bernice.
