She had always thought she loved Phil Barry—but somehow, in a moment this insistent wooer had pushed Phil to the background.
“Not now,” she said, softly, as she gave him her hand, “I will think about what you’ve said—but I can’t promise now.”
“No, dear, I understand,” and as Pollard’s strong fingers closed over her own, Phyllis was almost certain what her eventual answer to him would be. He was so gentle in his strength, so tender in his manliness—and he seemed a real refuge for her in her uncertainties.
“But, here’s another thing,” he went on; “I hate to tell you, but the question of your having been in Gleason’s room is bound to be raised—and I want to say that I saw you—that afternoon at about six o’clock. I tell you, so you won’t try any prevarication on me.”
The last was said with a good-natured smile, that gave a feeling of camaraderie which delighted Phyllis’ heart. She didn’t want to give herself irrevocably to Pollard—yet—but she was glad to have him for a friend—and his frank, pleasant friendliness cheered her very soul.
“Where in the world did you see me?” she asked.
“At the crowded corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street. I had just left Phil Barry—we came down from the Club together—and I saw you, in a cab—with a strange man. Who was he, Phyllis?”
The assured manner of his query was not lost on the girl, but she did not resent it.
“Must I tell you?” she smiled.
“No—no, dear. But I wish you wanted to be frank with me—to confide in me.”