“At having a hand on the reins, that’s all—but then, Europe is the coach. There’s not much show about my ambitions, but a remarkable amount of solid reality. I don’t ask for the things other people covet—money or love or pleasure—but I must be behind the scenes and pull the wires. It doesn’t matter to me whether my power is recognised by the man in the street or not, so long as I know that I have it, and can make the puppets dance.”
“And Otto Georg?” asked Caerleon drily.
“Otto Georg is a puppet for whom I have a foolish weakness. To give him and the silly little Queen a chance of composing their differences, I have sacrificed myself so far as to quit the stage for three months, in spite of his entreaties and my own better judgment. For his sake I hope he won’t command my return before the time is up, but for my own I trust he will.”
“Then you will take care of Uncle Cyril, Phil, and amuse him?”
“Oh yes, mother,” and Philippa climbed into the carriage for another kiss. “I’m going to take him all round, and explain everything.”
“Poor Uncle Cyril!” said Caerleon. “Haven’t you forgotten that he knew his way about the place a good many years before you were born, Phil?”
“Oh dear!” gasped Philippa in dismay, as she returned to the doorstep. “Did you really, Uncle Cyril?”
“I’m afraid I did once, but very likely I have forgotten half of it. We’ll see which of us remembers the stories best.”
This was a proposal entirely to Philippa’s taste, and she led her obedient uncle away as soon as the carriage had driven off. To her great distress, however, his reminiscences proved invariably to be incorrect, and frequently also to be humorous in character, a trait which jarred on her sense of fitness.
“I don’t believe you were really here when you were a little boy, Uncle Cyril,” she remarked at last, as he found her a comfortable seat on the safest portion of the wall of the ruined Abbey.