“Look here,” said the young man, as Byrne left the room, “she was out till eleven last night in the woods; she knocked me up as I was sitting in the library and I let her in. I don’t see anything wrong in the business, but all the same, it’s not a particularly safe proceeding and I suppose a mother or father would have jawed her—I couldn’t. I suppose I showed by my manner that I didn’t approve of her being out so late, for she seemed in a huff as she went up to bed. My position is a bit difficult, but I’m hanged if I’m going to do the heavy father or careful mother business. If she was only a boy, I could talk to her like a Dutch uncle, but I don’t know anything about girls. I wish—”
Pinckney’s wish remained forever unexpressed, for at the moment the door opened and in came Phyl.
Her face was glowing with the morning air and she seemed to have forgotten the business of the night before as she greeted Pinckney and the lawyer and took her place at the table.
“Phyl,” said the lawyer, half jocularly, “here’s Mr. Pinckney been complaining that you were wandering about all night in the woods, knocking him up to let you in at two o’clock in the morning.”
Phyl, who was helping herself to bacon, looked up at Pinckney.
“Oh, you cad,” said her eyes. Then she spoke:
“I came in at eleven. If I had known, I would have called up Byrne or one of the servants to let me in.”
Pinckney could have slain Hennessey.
“Good gracious,” he said. “I wasn’t complaining. I only just mentioned the fact.”
“The fact that I was out till two,” said Phyl, with another upward glance of scorn.