He had thought that the mother encouraged the Colonel’s visits, and he put it down to a bit of innocent scheming on her part to bring about a marriage between him and Phyllis. Yes, he had been utterly blind. He felt humiliated.
He felt also virtuous.
Had he not been cheerfully giving up days of his precious time chiefly to please his mother? Had he not gone with her to her precious garden-parties, and on excursions to Rye and Winchelsea? Had he not controlled his impatience with Uncle Robert’s quotations—for nearly a week? Uncle Robert! did he know about this unseemly affair? If he did know, did he approve?
But he, Philip, was the head of the family, not Uncle Robert.
Philip paced backwards and forwards on the hill, till the clocks of All Saints’ and of St. Clement’s struck a duet.
It was midnight.
Philip turned and walked rapidly homewards across the hill, and down the hundred odd steps that brought him into the Queen’s Road, up which he strode towards Hawk’s Nest.
As he expected, the mother was waiting up for him in the dim drawing-room, where now only one lamp was burning, subdued under a pink shade.
He saw her as he came upon the terrace. She heard his step, and came out through the open French window.
“You are late, dearest,” she said a little anxiously.