Philip said huskily, "We do not know."
"You don't know! You—you haven't lost him?"
Philip nodded. To his surprise he found that he was sobbing, crying as he had not cried since he was a boy.
"Oh—oh!" gasped Jacqueline. Then, "Stop, please, Mummy. I want to get in and comfort Phil."
She turned her horse loose with a slap on the flank, and clambered in between them.
Jacqueline knew a great deal about comforting people. It was a knowledge that had been given to her with her warm lips, and her crooning voice, and her clinging, caressing hands. She said nothing, because she could think of nothing to say; but for the rest of the way Philip was aware of a young arm wound tight about his shoulders, and more than once of lips fluttering against his cheek. Jacqueline's kisses were like the dew from heaven, which falls alike upon the just and the unjust; none the less blessed, perhaps, for that.
Philip had more than his share of these attentions, because Kate did not seem to need them. She still drove silently, sitting upright, staring straight before her.
Once the girl leaned far out of the phaeton, and waved a handkerchief three times, as if she were signaling. There was an answering flutter from beneath the juniper-tree.
"Who is that in the eyrie?" It was the first time Kate had spoken for hours, and her voice seemed to come with a great effort.
"Why, it's the Blossom, Mother. She hasn't gone yet. She was waiting till the last possible moment, to be sure whether—whether Philip's father was with you. I promised to signal her yes or no."