Uncle Joseph turned to his nephew. A grim smile played about the ends of his mustache.
"And now, laddie," he enquired, "have I made things any easier for you?"
Philip flushed.
"What do you mean?" he muttered. But he knew only too well.
"I mean this," said Uncle Joseph. "Has my story made it any easier for you to relinquish your acquaintance with the small siren of Hampstead Heath?"
It was the first critical moment in Philip's life. Reason and Instinct—the truculent logic of his uncle and the gentle, chivalrous spirit of his father—fought for mastery within him. Instinct won, and he replied doggedly:—
"No. I'm sorry."
"So am I," said Uncle Joseph, rising to his feet again. "However, you must be protected from yourself. Listen! You will drop your acquaintance with this little girl, and refrain from making any other friendships of a similar nature so long as you remain in my charge. It is an order. You understand?"
Philip bowed his head in silence. He had been brought up in a soldier's house, and when Uncle Joseph spoke in his orderly-room voice there was nothing more to be said on the matter.
That night, for the first time in his life, Philip cried himself to sleep. He had pledged his knightly word to keep tryst with a lady on Hampstead Heath the following afternoon, and now he would have to break it.