"I have no fault to find with you for being foolish about your mother," said Philip.
"Then, that's all right!" She blew him a kiss, and prepared to leave him. "And of course I will tell her everything, soon. When she knows, she's going to be glad, gladder than anybody. I remember once,"—the girl's face grew very tender—"we were just little things, Jemmy and I, but she was talking to us, like she does. She said, 'When the right man comes along, my girlies, be sure he is the right man, and then don't be afraid. Love him with all your might and main, and be sure he knows it. There's nothing in the world so mean as a niggardly lover!' I—I am not a niggardly lover, Philip," she added shyly.
His throat contracted. Jacqueline's naïveté was singularly touching to him.
"Wait a moment," he said, detaining her. "Since I must keep the great secret, I want you to promise me one thing. Do not go to Mr. Farwell's house alone any more. You see," he explained to her widened eyes, "there aren't any women there. Girls do not call on men."
"I go to your house whenever I like!"
He smiled. "As you yourself said once, I'm 'not men.' But it isn't done, little girl. Take my word for that, please."
"Very well!" she chuckled. "You sound like Jemmy!—But I promise. I like the Ruin better anyway. More private."
She waved back at him, put her horse lightly over a fence, and was off across the fields at a full gallop.
He went his way thoughtfully. Philip was beginning to find his duties as guardian of Kate Kildare and her children somewhat onerous. He tried to reassure himself with the thought of Jacqueline's youth. Mature as she had become in body, in mind she was still a child. At that age, love could not be lasting.
But while it lasted, could it not devastate?