Philip stopped in the doorway.
“Hullo!” he said, “who’s there?”
A figure came forward. Philip, to whom all the world was, to-night, a fantasy, stared, for a moment, at the large bearded form without recognising it—wild and unreal as it seemed in the dim room. The man chuckled.
“Well, young man. I’ve come to call, I got here two minutes before you.”
It was Uncle Tim, Mrs. Trenchard’s brother, Timothy Faunder, Esq.
“I beg your pardon,” said Philip, “the room was dark and—and—as a matter of fact I was thinking of something rather hard as I came in. Wait a minute. You shall have some light, tea and a cigarette in a moment.”
“No, thanks.” Uncle Tim went back to the window again. “No tea—no cigarette. I hate the first. The second’s poisonous. I’ve got a pipe here—and don’t light up—the room’s rather pleasant like this. I expect it’s hideous when one can see it.”
Philip was astonished. He had liked Tim Faunder, but had decided that Tim Faunder was indifferent to him—quite indifferent. For what had he come here? Sent by the family?... Yes, he liked Uncle Tim, but he did not want him or anyone else in the world there just then. He desired to sit by the open window, alone, to think about Katherine, to worship Katherine!
They both sat down; Faunder on the window-seat, Philip near by. The noise of the town was distant enough to make a pleasant rumbling accompaniment to their voices. The little dark public-house opposite with its beery eye, a dim hanging lamp in the doorway, watched them.
“Well, how are you?” said Faunder, “lonely?”