"I went back to the regiment. I had that consolation, I told myself. Nothing stood between me and my work now. But I was wrong again. Nothing seemed worth while any more. Regimental routine wearied me to death, and presently I understood what had happened. In the old days I had loved the regiment because it was _my_ regiment: latterly I had loved it because it was _her_ regiment, and I wanted to make it a credit to her. Now that she was gone--_cui bono_? But I fought on--I would not give in. I was mechanical, but pretty thorough. I fulfilled every duty rigidly. The only difference was that, whereas the regiment had formerly been commanded by a Damascus blade, it was now commanded by a broomstick, and it went about its work correspondingly. "Then, three months later, came a letter from your father. He was dying, Phil,--dying of a broken heart, if ever a man did. His story was the same as mine, only more shameful. He asked me to take charge of you. Then I saw light: my duty lay plain ahead of me. I would go home and devote the rest of my life to protecting my nephew from the monstrous danger of Woman. I sent in my papers, came home, and took charge of you; and here we are! I have spoken." Uncle Joseph dropped unconcernedly back into his armchair, and relit the ashes of his pipe. But his fingers were shaking. Philip sat still and silent for a long time. Then he asked:-- "Was she very pretty, Uncle Joseph?" "She was the most beautiful creature I have ever seen," said Uncle Joseph simply. Philip ventured on one more question. "Is she alive now?" Uncle Joseph shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know," he said. "I have dropped so thoroughly out of the world that the social history of the past ten years is a blank to me. I never have heard of her since I left India. I do not even know her husband's title." Uncle Joseph turned to his nephew. A grim smile played about the ends of his mustache. "And now, laddie," he enquired, "have I made things any easier for you?" Philip flushed. "What do you mean?" he muttered. But he knew only too well. "I mean this," said Uncle Joseph. "Has my story made it any easier for you to relinquish your acquaintance with the small siren of Hampstead Heath?" It was the first critical moment in Philip's life. Reason and Instinct--the truculent logic of his uncle and the gentle, chivalrous spirit of his father--fought for mastery within him. Instinct won, and he replied doggedly:-- "No. I'm sorry." "So am I," said Uncle Joseph, rising to his feet again. "However, you must be protected from yourself. Listen! You will drop your acquaintance with this little girl, and refrain from making any other friendships of a similar nature so long as you remain in my charge. It is an order. You understand?" Philip bowed his head in silence. He had been brought up in a soldier's house, and when Uncle Joseph spoke in his orderly-room voice there was nothing more to be said on the matter.