"Now, Philip, stop," said Millard, with heat. "You are in my house. No man shall say a word against that woman in my hearing while I live. I tell you that even her mistakes are noble. If her relatives are ashamed of such as she is, I am sorry for her relatives." Millard made an effort to say more, but his utterance was choked.
Philip laughed a sardonic little laugh.
"Charley, before God, I was not sincere in a word I said against Phillida. I lied with deliberate purpose. Now I know that you love her. That's what I wanted to find out. I only denounced her to get at your feelings. You wouldn't tell me, I had to resort to a ruse."
"Do you think it—do you think it's the thing to pry into my feelings?" said Millard, still speaking hotly.
"Yes, I do, under the circumstances. In return I'll tell you something worth your listening to, if you'll only cool off enough to hear it."
Millard's curiosity was excited by this, but he made no reply; he only sat still with Philip's eyes fixed upon him.
"Phillida loves you," said Philip.
Millard looked steadily at the smallish figure of his old friend, not shrunken into the chair as usual now, but sitting upright and looking straight at him with a strange look he had never seen before.
"Philip," he said softly, "how do you know this? Tell me, for God's sake!"
"I must not betray confidence," said Philip. "You know me, your friend and Phillida's. I am here to-night—I might say heart-broken, I can hardly say disappointed. I don't blame Phillida for not caring for me except as a cousin, or for preferring you. On the whole, if I were in her place I'd do the same, by George!"