Philip's smile vanished and he bowed. His manner, Mrs. Wilbur thought, was unpleasantly good.
"And this is Herbert Gayne, Mamma," went on Diana.
The boy's eyes roved to the plump lady, who came forward and took his hand.
"I knew your grandfather, my dear child," she said, and she glanced over his shabby figure, appalled that the name of Loring could ever fall so low.
Bertie said nothing. What did the lady mean by talking about his grandfather? No one but his mother had ever done that.
A slight smile touched his lips as Mrs. Lowell greeted him, and then he looked over his shoulder and all about the flower-strewn room.
"Your uncle is not here," she said quietly. "He isn't coming, Bertie. We are going to have lunch alone."
The boy's melancholy eyes lifted to hers questioningly. She nodded reassuringly.
"Mr. Barrison, this is the key to Bert's room," said Diana. "Will you go up with him and then return here? Luncheon will be ready."
Philip took the key, and, wondering, escorted his charge to the elevator. "Bert's room," he said to himself. When they arrived there, the flowers on the dresser caused him to remember Matt Blake's absurd account, and he felt his first questioning as to whether ice-cream and a show or two did really cover the plans of these ladies for the boy. "But where is Uncle Nick?" was his mental query.