"I didn't mean to be unkind—at least, I hope I didn't," said Phyllis. "Only, do you know, dear brother—since I am to confide my real feelings to you—I'm never quite sure of myself where that girl is concerned. I can't stand her. I'm so sorry for poor Mr. van Buren. What do you suppose he answered when I asked him that question about being jealous of you—that rather naughty question? He said, 'Would to Heaven she were his, not mine!'"
Had I been on St. Lawrence's gridiron, I could not have helped chortling.
"I'm not at all sure she isn't," I muttered, under my breath; but Phyllis caught the words.
"What do you mean?" she gasped. "Oh, it can't be you mean anything, do you?"
"Well, anyhow, I mean that it's very likely she won't long be his," I explained, fired with anxiety to please the girl at any cost.
"It sounds too glorious to be true. It can't be true! But if it could! It's no use saying I wouldn't be glad—for poor Mr. van Buren's sake; he's so much too nice for her—mercenary, conceited, selfish little creature."
"Right, on every count," said I.
"I don't quite understand you," said Phyllis. "But I can't help feeling that, if anything splendid does happen, it will be all through you—somehow. You promised me, didn't you?—well, I don't know exactly what you promised; but it made me feel happy and sure everything would come out well, that night when you said you'd like to have me for a sister."
"Did I say that?" I asked in surprise.
"Didn't you? I thought——"