The dramatist had referred several times to a friend of his, Andrew Hexham, whom he particularly wished Phyllis and Adair to meet. Ordinarily so frank he was somewhat hazy and mysterious in his references to this personage, who apparently was a man of large fortune, and of considerable importance in theatrical affairs. Once Reece dropped his play, and went off for three days--an extraordinary lapse from his habit of persistent industry--and on his return mentioned he had been, staying with Hexham, smiling in a queer, guilty kind of way that tantalized Phyllis' curiosity. But nothing could be got out of him--at least nothing that could explain his singular entertainment whenever Hexham's name came up. It seemed, however, that this man had to be won over; that The Firebrand was in some dim manner dependent on his good will; that he was a fussy, troublesome, dictatorial person, not a little prejudiced against Adair. This had to be overcome at a meeting; and Phyllis, especially, was commanded to go out of her way to be "nice to him"--"You're such an irresistible little baggage when you choose," said Rolls Reece. "I want you to tie him up in bow-knots, just as you tied me, to dazzle him, and then we'll sign the contract right there before he can undazzle himself."
"I'm not much good at fascinating people unless I like them," returned Phyllis ingenuously and doubtfully.
"Oh, you'll like him," protested Reece. "I'll answer for that, you know."
"Well, I'll do my best," said Phyllis, wondering to herself what it all meant. "I'll sit very close, and make dachshund eyes at him, and encourage him to talk about himself. That's the secret of woman's charm when you analyze it. See how it caught you!"
It was too bad, though, that Rolls Reece should have chosen the Sunday that Adair ran over from Philadelphia, where The Upstarts was booked for a week. The pair had been separated for nearly four weeks, and Phyllis wanted her husband all to herself. Rolls Reece, Andrew Hexham, even The Firebrand itself, were very secondary things when weighed against the rapture of Adair's return. She pleaded with Rolls Reece to postpone the meeting until Monday afternoon, but the dramatist with unexpected obstinacy stood out for Sunday evening. Hints were lost on him, and even some pink-cheeked, shy, half-murmured things merely made him laugh instead of relenting.--Sunday night it had to be.
But to do him justice, the dramatist tempered severity with his usual generosity. He sent a prodigal amount of flowers, as well as a case of champagne, and would have contributed his colored butler had he been allowed--which he wasn't. Phyllis said that the Pest Person (as all that day she hotly called Mr. Hexham)--the Pest Person had to take them as they were, and if there was one thing worse than a hired butler, it was a borrowed one. If the Pest Person didn't like the way he was treated--if he were the sort of Pest Person who judged people by striped nigger-trousers and gilt chandeliers, why, he could just go to the devil.--Which went to show, incidentally, how good that four weeks' rest had been for Phyllis, and how fast she was getting back her former spirit.
At nine that evening Adair and Phyllis were both waiting for their visitors. True to her promise to Rolls Reece the latter had dressed herself with unusual care; and Adair, who was allowed to see but not touch, swore she had never looked more ravishing. Her fresh young womanhood entranced him; she was so slender, so graceful, so girlish, and the red rose in her hair was not more exquisite. What a beauty she was! How altogether perfect from the top of her dark head to her trim little feet!--And the saucy mouth that was always ready to part on the dazzling teeth; the low, sweet, eager voice; the bubbling, caressing laugh--after four weeks of loneliness, of dismal, dreary separation, it was as though he had never really appreciated them before; and it was intolerable to be stuck to a chair and forbidden to move when everything in him bade him seize her in his arms, and assert his master's right.
Worst still, Rolls Reece and the Pest Person were late. The minutes ticked away--five past, ten past, a quarter past, twenty past--and yet there was neither dramatist nor Pest.--Ah, there they were at last! Phyllis ran to admit them, fumbling at the latch of the door in her excitement. She opened it on the dimly-lighted landing, and held out both hands in welcome to Rolls Reece, who stood before her. His friend was hidden in the shadow, but as she glanced towards him recognition suddenly pierced her heart. It was her father!
All he said was her name, and that so humbly, and with an intonation so affecting that she flung her arms about him in a paroxysm of tenderness, unmindful of everything save the love that suddenly flooded her whole being. Misunderstanding, self-justification, the rights or wrongs of their unhappy estrangement--all were forgotten, all were swept away. Clinging to him she guided him along the passageway and into the sitting-room, where Adair, bewildered and astonished, was waiting to receive them. Even in the throes of that tumultuous moment Phyllis, trying to see with her father's eyes, took in Adair with a welling pride. Never had he appeared to her more manly, more distinguished or noble; and when she said: "My husband, Daddy," it was with a little air that told of her own content with the man of her choice.
"I am here in the character of a repentant father, with ashes on his head," said Mr. Ladd; and going up to Adair, held out his hand. "Will you not forgive me?" he asked, "and may we not be friends?"