He had returned to her—he, whom she fancied to be far away; he who had forsaken her, as she thought, as she feared, as she (at times) hoped, forever. He had returned to her. There was no one now to stand between them. He was all her own.
She flung off the dress which she was wearing,—it was her plainest evening gown,—and had actually got on another, a lovely one that she had never yet worn, before her maid arrived at her dressing room.
“Louise,” she said, “send a message downstairs to show Mr. Courtland to his room, and mention that he will dine with me. Come back at once. I have got so far in my dressing without you; I can’t go much further, however.”
In a quarter of an hour she was surveying herself in her mirror just as Phyllis had been doing an hour sooner; only on her face was a very different expression from that which Phyllis had worn. Her eyes were brilliant as they never had been before, except once; her face was not pale, but full of soft color, as if she were standing beneath the shadow of a mighty rose-leaf with the sunlight above. Her neck and arms were of the same delicate tinge. Her smile she gave as she surveyed herself was a smile of triumph, very different from the expression on poor Phyllis’ features as she flung her hat across the room.
“Mine, mine, mine!” she whispered, nodding with a smile at the lovely thing so full of warm life that faced her with a smile. “He is mine—he has come back to me, I will keep him. I shall be able to keep him, I think.”
She had scarcely entered the drawing room before he was beside her, and he had scarcely entered before a servant announced that dinner was served. They were seated at the dinner table before they had exchanged half a dozen words—before she had time to ask him why he had returned.
And at the table, with a servant at each end, what could they say?
Well, she gave in detail, with the accuracy of a railway time-table, the hours of the departure of the various guests, down to the last departed guest, who chanced to be Miss Ayrton. Yes, she was obliged to go up to town to be present at that important function which was to be given in the presence of Royalty, though, she, Mrs. Linton, was convinced that Phyllis would much prefer remaining in the midst of that exquisite quietude which seemed to be found only up the river. She had wanted her dear Phyllis to stay until the morrow, but poor Phyllis’ sense of duty had been, as unfortunately it always was, too great for her inclination.
“Unfortunately?” said Herbert.
“Did I say unfortunately?” she cried. “How funny! I meant of course, unfortunately for her friends—for myself in this particular case. But, after all, we had a delightful week together. It has done us all good—even you.”