There he stopped and turned scarlet, for a lie was on his lips,—a lie so much easier to tell than the honest truth that many would have forgiven its utterance at that minute.
His hostess naturally thought ill health was his excuse, and, pitying his embarrassment, said, smiling,—
"Ah! you doctors don't prescribe wine for your own ailments as readily as for those of your patients."
But Phil, angry at his own weakness, spoke out frankly, with a look that said more than his words,—
"I cannot even accept the kind excuse you offer me, for I am not ill. It may be my duty to order wine sometimes for my patients, but it is also my duty to prescribe water for myself."
A dreadful little pause followed that speech; but Mrs. Ward understood now, and though she thought the scruple a foolish one, she accepted the apology like a well-bred woman, and, with a silent bow that ended the matter, turned to other guests, leaving poor Phil to his fate.
Not a pleasant one, but he bore it as well as he could, and when his mates left him stranded in a corner, he said, half aloud, with a long breath, as if the battle had been a hard one,—
"Yes, I suppose I have lost my best patient, but I've kept my own respect, and that ought to satisfy me."
"Let me add mine, and wish you health and happiness, dear Phil," said a voice behind him, and turning quickly he saw Pris standing there with two goblets of water, and a smile full of love and pride.
"You know what that toast means for me?" he whispered, with sudden sunshine in his face, as he took the offered glass.