Well, whatever happened now, the responsibility had slipped from Philip's shoulders. And in the midst of all the present turmoil of his senses one emotion overtopped all the others—a feeling of intense curiosity to behold the arch-expert in misogyny handling the situation.
It would be a sensational scene, Philip thought. And he was not disappointed.
"Hallo, there, Philip!" Uncle Joseph's voice rang out from the hall. "Are you in?" The library door stood ajar, and his words could be heard distinctly.
"Yes, Uncle Joseph!" called Philip.
"That is my uncle," he explained, turning politely to the Beautiful Lady. "He—"
But the words died on his lips. Lady Broadhurst was on her feet, deadly white, and shaking. One hand was at her heart, the other fumbled at the mantelpiece for support.
Uncle Joseph's voice rang out again, this time from the neighbourhood of the hatstand.
"I'm back sooner than I expected. Skip about and get me some tea, you young beggar!"
The Beautiful Lady's white lips parted, and she uttered a faint cry. But she did not move.
Philip went out into the hall. His uncle was hanging up his greatcoat.