Philip laughed again, that little laugh which pained his friend.
"Why did you come to tell me this, Philip?" Millard was sitting now with his elbows on the table, and the fingers of his right hand supporting his cheek, as he regarded Philip steadily.
"Well, if one can not contrive to do what one wants, he should, I suppose, do the second best thing. The only thing for me to do—the thing that'll be a comfort for me to look back on—is to render Phillida some service. In short, to save her life and make her happy."
"How do you propose to do that?" asked Millard.
"I've already done it, old fellow," said Philip, with a mixture of triumph and regret in his voice. "Dr. Gunstone said to Aunt Callender, after talking with Phillida, that unless her engagement with you were renewed she would probably not recover. I wouldn't have told you this for the world if I had found you didn't love her. She'd better die now than marry you and discover that you married her from pity."
Millard went to his desk and took out the note from Mrs. Callender in which Phillida had refused to see him. He handed it to Philip.
"I got that last week, and it seemed final," he said huskily. "I have found life almost more than I could carry since, Philip."
Philip read the note and then returned it to Millard.
"That's some of her confounded scruples," he said. "She told me that she had ruined your life. She thinks you wish to marry her from pity, and she'd rather die like a brave girl than consent to that. But she loves you and nobody else."
"I wish I were sure of it," said Millard.