"To give that chair to Mina Schulenberg, and all so quietly."
"Miss Callender—Phillida—may I call you Phillida?"
A tone of entreaty in this inquiry went to her heart and set her thoughts in a whirl. It was not possible to say "No." She did not lift her eyes from the asphalt, which she was pushing with the ferrule of her parasol, but she said "Yes," filled with she knew not what pleasure at having Millard use this familiarity.
"Phillida, you have taught me a great deal. It is to you that the poor girl owes her ride to-day, and to you that I owe the pleasure of seeing her enjoy it. I'm not so good as you are. I am a rather—a rather useless person, I'm afraid. But I am learning. And I want to ask you before I go away whether you could love me?"
Phillida kept trying to bore into the pavement with her parasol, but she did not reply.
After a pause Millard went on. "I know you don't decide such things by mere passion. But you've had reason to think that I loved you for a good while. Haven't you?"
"I—I think I have." This was said with difficulty after a pause of some seconds.
"And you must have thought about it, and turned it over in the light of duty. Haven't you—Phillida?"
This address by her Christian name startled her. It was almost like a caress. But presently she said, "Yes; I have." She remembered that her prayer this very morning had been that before she should be called upon to decide the question of marrying Millard she might have some sign to guide her, and now the happy face of Wilhelmina seemed the very omen she had sought.
"And you haven't made up your mind to reject me?" said Millard.