Phœbe gave him a wise smile. “At first, I’ll just hint.”
“Good. And—and there’s something else: If I were you I wouldn’t tell Miss Ruth that you’ve talked this over with me.”
“I won’t,” she promised, understanding.
“Let her—and Daddy—think it was all your idea.”
“If you think I’d better.”
“I do. And, Phœbe, I’m not going to tell you what to say, or how to say it; I’m just going to let you follow your own blessed ideas.”
Her eyes grew solemn. “You needn’t be afraid,” she answered reassuringly. “I know just how to do it. I’ve got a wonderful plan.”
“Ah, fine!” Then a little awkwardly, “But—er—I wonder if you could manage (just this once) to tell a—a sort of a fib.”
Phœbe laughed. “I guess so.” And added, roguishly, “If it’s a little one.”
He sobered and leaned down to her, taking her hands. “It’s important. Even if you don’t understand why, oh, remember and believe what I tell you—it’s very important. Phœbe, if Miss Ruth asks you who wanted you to do this, you must say it was Daddy.”