“You oughtn’t to have gone to the funeral, Henrietta,” said her sister. “I knew it would upset you.”
Then one of the strangers spoke.
“Poor little boy, it’s dreadful to think of him quite alone in the world. I see he limps.”
“Yes, he’s got a club-foot. It was such a grief to his mother.”
Then Emma came back. They called a hansom, and she told the driver where to go.
III
When they reached the house Mrs. Carey had died in—it was in a dreary, respectable street between Notting Hill Gate and High Street, Kensington—Emma led Philip into the drawing-room. His uncle was writing letters of thanks for the wreaths which had been sent. One of them, which had arrived too late for the funeral, lay in its cardboard box on the hall-table.
“Here’s Master Philip,” said Emma.
Mr. Carey stood up slowly and shook hands with the little boy. Then on second thoughts he bent down and kissed his forehead. He was a man of somewhat less than average height, inclined to corpulence, with his hair, worn long, arranged over the scalp so as to conceal his baldness. He was clean-shaven. His features were regular, and it was possible to imagine that in his youth he had been good-looking. On his watch-chain he wore a gold cross.
“You’re going to live with me now, Philip,” said Mr. Carey. “Shall you like that?”