Phyl had been drawing steadily towards him lately, till, unknown to her, he had entered into the little romance of Juliet, so much so that if last night, at that magical moment when he met her on entering the gate—if at that moment he had taken her in his arms and kissed her, Love might have been born instantly from his embrace.
But the psychological moment had passed, a crisis unknown to him and almost unknown to her.
And now, as if to seal the triumph of the commonplace, suddenly, the vague reservation that had lain between them, disappeared.
“Do you know,” said he, “you taught me a lesson that day, a lesson every man ought to be taught before he leaves college.”
“What was that?” asked Phyl.
“Never to interfere in household affairs. Of course Rafferty wasn’t exactly a household affair because he belonged mostly to the stable, still he was your affair more than mine. Household affairs belong to women, and men ought to leave them alone.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Phyl, “but all the same I was wrong. Do you know I’ve never apologised for what I said.”
“What did you say?” asked he with an artless air of having forgotten.
“Oh, I said—things, and—I apologise.”
“And I said—things, and I apologise—come on, let’s go out. I have no business this morning and I’d like to show you the town—if you’d care to come.”