“Mr. Ross!” said she, in a tone of stern triumph. “So here you are! Phyllis, dear, give Mr. Ross one of our cards—with the address.”
Then he caught sight of Phyllis, standing behind her mother. In her little close fitting hat, her coat with a fur collar, she looked taller, older, graver, quite different from that bright-haired, slender little thing in a deck chair. And, somehow, she was so dear to him, so lovely, so gentle, so utterly trustworthy.
“I’ll never forget her!” he thought, in despair.
Then she spoke, in a tone he had not heard before.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I haven’t any cards with me.”
“Phyllis!” cried her mother. “I particularly asked you—”
“I’m sorry,” Phyllis declared again. “We’ll really have to hurry, mother. Good-by, Mr. Ross!”
Her steady blue eyes met his for an instant, but, for all the regret and pain he felt, his stubborn spirit refused to show one trace. Evidently she knew he had tried to run away, and she didn’t want to see him again. Very well!
“Good-by, Miss Barron!” he said.
She turned away, and he, too, would have walked off, but the dauntless Mrs. Barron was not to be thwarted.