“Phil is the best actor in all the world, Rachel!” she exclaimed. “He turned as white as a sheet just now. He turned gray, and he groaned most awfully, and he wouldn’t speak, and I thought he was dying, and I flew for some one, and I found Mrs. Lovel, and she came back to Phil, and she laughed, and said there was nothing the matter, and that Phil was only acting. Isn’t it wonderful, Rachel, that Phil can turn pale when he likes, and groan in such a terrible way? Oh, it made me shiver to see him! I do hope he won’t act being ill again.”
“He didn’t act,” said Rachel in a contemptuous voice; “that’s what his mother said. I wouldn’t have her for a mother for a great deal. I’d rather have no mother. Poor little Phil didn’t act. Don’t talk nonsense, Kitty.”
“Then if he didn’t act he must be very ill,” said Kitty. Then, her blue eyes filling with tears, she added: “I do love him so! I love him even though he has a dearest friend.”
Rachel stretched out her hand and drew Kitty into a corner of her own luxurious chair. She had not seen Phil, and Kitty’s account of him scarcely made her uneasy.
“Even if he was a little ill, he’s all right now,” she said. “Stay with me, Kitty-cat; I scarcely ever see you. I think Phil is quite your dearest friend.”
“Quite,” answered Kitty solemnly. “I love him better than any one, except you, Rachel; only I do wish—yes, I do—that he had not so many secrets.”
“He never told you what happened to him that day in the forest, did he, Kitty?”
“Oh, no; he pulled himself up short. He was often going to, but he always pulled himself up. “What a dreadfully jerky man he’ll grow up, Rachel.”
“He never quite told you?” continued Rachel. “Well, I don’t want him to tell me, for I know.”
“Rachel!”