“And what an awful week it was after that! I was never so miserable in all my life. I cried till my eyes were quite red, and then I bathed them for an hour, and then I went to the pier, and you were there—and I mightn’t speak to you!”
“I remember,” said Hilary, nodding gently.
“And then, Hilary, father sent for me and told me it was no use; and I said I’d never marry any one else. And father said, ‘There, there, don’t cry. We’ll see what mother says.’”
“Your mother was a brick,” said Hilary, poking the fire.
“And that night they never told me anything about it, and I didn’t even change my frock, but came down, looking horrible, just as I was, in an old black rag—no, Hilary, don’t say it was pretty!”
Hilary, unconvinced, shook his head.
“And when I walked into the drawing room there was nobody there but just you; and we neither of us said anything for ever so long. And then father and mother came in and—do you remember after dinner, Hilary?”
“I remember,” said Hilary.
There was a long pause. Mrs. Hilary was looking into the fire; little Miss Phyllis’s eyes were fixed, in rapt gaze, on the ceiling; Hilary was looking at his wife—I, thinking it safest, was regarding my own boots.
At last Miss Phyllis broke the silence.