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WhentheyreachedthehouseMrs.Careyhaddiedin—itwasinadreary,respectablestreetbetweenNottingHillGateandHighStreet,Kensington—EmmaledPhilipintothedrawing-room.Hisunclewaswritinglettersofthanksforthewreathswhichhadbeensent.Oneofthem,whichhadarrivedtoolateforthefuneral,layinitscardboardboxonthehall-table.
“Here’sMasterPhilip,”saidEmma.
Mr.Careystoodupslowlyandshookhandswiththelittleboy.Thenonsecondthoughtshebentdownandkissedhisforehead.Hewasamanofsomewhatlessthanaverageheight,inclinedtocorpulence,withhishair,wornlong,arrangedoverthescalpsoastoconcealhisbaldness.Hewasclean-shaven.Hisfeatureswereregular,anditwaspossibletoimaginethatinhisyouthhehadbeengood-looking.Onhiswatch-chainheworeagoldcross.
“You’regoingtolivewithmenow,Philip,”saidMr.Carey.“Shallyoulikethat?”
TwoyearsbeforePhiliphadbeensentdowntostayatthevicarageafteranattackofchicken-poxbutthereremainedwithhimarecollectionofanatticandalargegardenratherthanofhisuncleandaunt.
“Yes.”
“YoumustlookuponmeandyourAuntLouisaasyourfatherandmother.”
Thechild’smouthtrembledalittle,hereddened,butdidnotanswer.
“Yourdearmotherleftyouinmycharge.”
Mr.Careyhadnogreateaseinexpressinghimself.Whenthenewscamethathissister-in-lawwasdying,hesetoffatonceforLondon,butonthewaythoughtofnothingbutthedisturbanceinhislifethatwouldbecausedifherdeathforcedhimtoundertakethecareofherson.Hewaswelloverfifty,andhiswife,towhomhehadbeenmarriedfor
