He looked out of the window in silence, and presently became aware that Phillida was weeping.
"O God! let me die," she murmured in a broken voice. "I am doomed to work only misery in the world. Isn't it enough to have blighted the happiness of Charley, whom I loved and still love in spite of myself? Must I also plunge Philip into misery who has been more than a brother to me? If I could only die and escape from this wretched life before I do any further harm."
"I am sorry that I said anything, Phillida. Forget it. Forget it, please." He said in an alarmed voice, rising as he spoke.
"Cousin," said Phillida, "you are the best friend I have. But you must not love me. There is nothing left for me. Nothing—but to die. Good-by."
That evening Philip did not appear at dinner and his mother sent to inquire the reason.
"Mr. Philip says he has a headache, and will not come down," said the maid on her return.
After dinner the mother sought his room with a cup of coffee and a bit of toast. Philip was lying on the lounge in his book-room with the gas turned low.
"What's the matter, Philip? Is your throat sore? Are there any signs of diphtheria?" demanded his mother anxiously.
"No, I am all right. A little out of sorts. Only just let me be quiet."
"Has anything gone wrong?"