On reaching the landing, Philip was turning to his old room, the bedroom he had occupied from his boyhood up, the bedroom of his mother's father, old Capt'n Billy.
“Not that way to-night, Philip. This way—there! What do you say to that?”
She pushed open the door of the room opposite, and the glow of the fire within rushed out on them.
“My father's room,” said Philip, and he stepped back.
“Oh, I've aired it, and it's not a bit the worse for being so long shut up. See, it's like toast Oo—oo—oo! Not the least sign of my breath. Come!”
“No, Auntie, no.”
“Are you afraid of ghosts? There's only one ghost lives here, Philip, the memory of your dear father, and that will never harm you.”
“But this place is too sacred. No one has slept here since——”
“That's why, dearest. But now you have justified your father's hopes, and it must be your room for the future. Ah! if he could only see you himself, how proud he would be! Poor father! Perhaps he does. Who knows—perhaps—kiss me, Philip. See what an old silly I am, after all. So happy that I have to cry. But mind now, you've got to sleep in this room every time you come to hold court in Ramsey. I refuse to share you with Elm Cottage any longer. Talk about jealousy! If Pete isn't jealous, I know somebody who is—or soon will be. But Philip—Philip Christian——”
“Yes?”