Philip began to feel horribly uncomfortable. He had already allowed his visitor to assume that she was in the dwelling of an indigent Clerk in Holy Orders, and that she was addressing Master Thomas Smith. Moreover, he had sat mute while she laid bare to him the tenderest secrets of a woman's heart, and the thought of what the end of the conversation must be made him feel a pitiful little cad. On the other hand, it was plainly advisable to establish some sort of working explanation, however lame, of the non-appearance of the Smith family. Once more, what would Uncle Joseph have done? He would probably have explained to this gracious being quite courteously but extremely firmly, that she was an incubus and a parasite, actuated by predatory instincts, and would have cast her from the house. But Philip felt utterly incapable of and entirely disinclined to such a drastic course of action. But plainly, something must be done. His head began to swim. "Perhaps your father and mother would like to go away together for a few weeks," suggested the Beautiful Lady. A glow of cheerful kindness was creeping into her cheeks. "To the seaside, perhaps, or even to the south of France. They could take the baby with them, and you might come to me, Tommy. Could you accept me as your mother for a week or two, do you think?" There was a world of wistfulness in her voice. "Could you?" Apparently not, for straightway the solemn-faced little boy before her flushed scarlet. "I--I'm afraid you have been making a mistake," began Philip desperately. "I'm not Tommy Smith at all." Lady Broadhurst looked puzzled. "Not Tommy Smith? But you wrote me that letter, surely?" "Yes, I wrote it," admitted Philip in a low voice. "Then where is the mistake? You are not the baby, are you?" "No, I'm not the baby either," said Philip miserably. "But your father--" "I haven't got any father--or mother, I'm afraid," said Philip, feeling more guilty than ever. The lady paused, and contemplated him with quickened interest. "You poor little lad!" she said, very softly. "But whose house is this?" "My uncle's." Lady Broadhurst's face cleared. "I see," she said. "You have no parents of your own, but live with your uncle and aunt. Naturally you would regard them as your father and mother, and speak of them as such. I understand now. But that shall make no difference. In fact I like the scrupulous way you tell me everything. If your uncle is ill--" "He isn't ill," said Philip regretfully. "Then he is better?" said Lady Broadhurst with a cheerful smile. "In that case he will be able to travel at once." Philip gripped the arm of his chair. The bad time had come. "My uncle isn't a--" he began. He was going to say "curate," but at that moment, to his profound surprise and unspeakable relief, there fell upon his ears the music of a latchkey in a lock, followed by the banging of the front door. Uncle Joseph had returned, an hour and a half before his time.