Charles was not proof against a natural curiosity, and decided to wait at the inn till the arrival of the others. He ascertained that Vernon had changed horses so it was evident that he intended to post as fast as possible Eastward. His own horse must be tended if they were to proceed that night. There was no other in the stables, and as he was sure of catching the chariot before morning, he felt there would be no harm in learning why Phyllida had supped at a wayside inn, alone with an elderly gentleman. What was Vernon about meanwhile? Why had he not accompanied her? Charles ordered supper and stepped into the Travellers' Room. "You were asking about a certain young woman," said Sir George, fixing him with deep set eyes of cold steel. "I was indeed, sir," answered Mr. Lovely pulling forward an armchair into the blaze and stretching his damp legs towards the genial warmth. "My name is Repington," said the old gentleman. "Eh! What?" "Sir George Repington." Charles stared at him. "And mine, sir, is Lovely, Charles Lovely." "My nephew--humph--'tis your existence which has attracted me so many miles West." "I did not think you knew of my existence," said Charles half sneering. "You never condescended to inform your uncle of your movements." "Sir," said the nephew, a smile of bitter recollection twisting the corners of his mouth. "I did not flatter myself that any attention on my side was welcome." "What! you remember our only interview?" "I was eight years old, sir." "Is that a date in youth's short calendar that breeds a specially sensitive disposition of mind?" "You turned me out of your house." "On the contrary, nephew, you chose to go back to your father." "Why wasn't he admitted, too?" "Because," replied the uncle, "on a former occasion I was unfortunately compelled to invite your father to leave my house." "By what right?" Sir George raised his eyebrows. "Truly, nephew, I think you are indiscreet for a young man of such fashion." "I have the right to know," Charles burst out. "In all that I can remember of my childhood, you stood like a shadow in the corner of the room, you were the nightmare that haunted my pillow. You used to write sometimes--oh! I can remember your letters in their fat pursy envelopes. I can smell the sealing wax, black sealing wax, now. My father would go out with an oath and my mother would sit by a window with your letter in her lap, weeping, weeping." "Did she weep, boy?" "Ah! that pleases you, eh?" "No, no, I was thinking what a laugh she had once--what a laugh. I expect I was hard--I was--Charles, nephew, give me your hand--I----" The old man faltered in his speech and, as if the room were dark, groped for our hero's hand; the latter drew back. "No! thank 'ee, Uncle, once is enough." The old man did not heed the insult. "Perhaps I understand your feelings, boy, I've read your poems."