“And Philip—where is he?”
“He left on to-night’s train for New Hampshire. He is going back to square the—er—the matter with the bank—so far as a return of the money can do it.”
“But he didn’t need to go in person to do that, did he?”
“That is what I told him; but he seemed to think he ought to go and face it out, man to man; that it was part of the price he must pay for the sake of the name—since his father wouldn’t pay any of it. I imagine, too, that he wants to be there to bargain that his mother and sisters are not to be harried by a revival of talk about the old scandal.”
She nodded complete intelligence, saying, “I told you you didn’t know the real Philip, Harry.”
“I didn’t; I admit it. He is as gentle and compassionate now as he used to be opinionated and hard. But he still believes he has put himself entirely beyond the pale.”
She made a swift little gesture of appeal. “You must try to make him understand that there isn’t any pale—not in his sense of the word—after he comes back.” Then: “He is coming back, isn’t he?”
Bromley nodded. “Yes; I think he is coming back. But as to making him understand: I fancy there is only one person in the world who can do that successfully, Jean. That person is yourself.”
She bent lower over her sewing. “What makes you say that, Harry?”
He was not looking at her when he answered. His gaze had wandered to the far end of the room; to a girlish face framed in a tousled mass of yellow hair; ripe lips pressed together and the fair brow wrinkled as their owner puzzled over her lesson for the next day.