It was evening before Phil went across the field to call. A brilliant planet showed a pale wake of light across the water, forerunner of the moon which was soon to rise.
"So serene, so soft, is she," thought Phil, in whose head Eliza's words still rang, "and so remote," he added. "So she shines on me, and on all, alike. Eliza hasn't seen the others, so she thinks me selected"; and he pressed down the stopper which a long time ago he fitted to repress disturbing emotions; for in the last hours they had effervesced threateningly around its rough edges.
Mrs. Fabian received him effusively and Kathleen with the calm directness to which he had adjusted himself.
"Your portrait comes off this summer, Aunt Isabel," he said.
"I can't afford it, my dear," she answered.
Phil shook his head. "If I painted a portrait of every Fabian on earth, would it pay my debt to you?" he asked. "And anyway I have the finest collection of Sidneys in the country; but there isn't a portrait among them."
"Do yourself sometime, Phil, will you?" suggested Kathleen.
"Yes, and you," he replied. "I want to do a picture of you on my terrace. Pat and I have brought up the bay to-day; and I want to begin it immediately."
"I know," laughed Kathleen. "You want to do both mother and me before our complexions desert us."