Colonel Lane had no doubt whatever that some sneer of Philip’s had been noticed by his uncle, and that he was deeply hurt.
Both Philip and Phyllis arrived at the truth.
“Can he have heard?” whispered Phyllis to Philip.
“It looks like it. I am horribly sorry,” Philip whispered back.
Colonel Lane, in his Sherlock Holmes capacity, noted the guarded whispers with growing wrath.
When Philip rang for his horse to be got ready, Colonel Lane stepped up to him and said icily: “I am coming to call on you to-morrow at four o’clock; mind you are at home.”
“Delighted, I am sure,” replied Philip, attempting a smile, which succeeded only in being a grimace.
“What the devil is up now, I wonder!” muttered Philip, as he rode away. “Lane is undoubtedly on the war-path. I wonder if he knows anything about my criticism of that infernal book? I did not lower my voice—damn it!”
But Philip heartily wished he had kept his opinions to himself. Uncle Robert was such a good sort. He had been so kind, so generous! Philip cursed himself for a cad.
All the same, he was not prepared to accept a lecture from Colonel Lane—the man who had the infernal impudence to be in love with the mother of a grown-up son!