Allan watched her amusedly for awhile—she was as intent as a good child over her tea-ball and her lemon and her little cakes.
"Say something, Phyllis," he suggested with the touch of mischief she was not yet used to, coming from him.
"This is a serious matter," she replied gravely. "Do you know I haven't made tea—afternoon tea, that is—for so long it's a wonder I know which is the cup and which is the saucer?"
"Why not?" he asked idly, yet interestedly too.
"I was otherwise occupied. I was a Daughter of Toil," explained Phyllis serenely, setting down her own cup to relax in her chair, hands behind her head; looking, in her green gown, the picture of graceful, strong, young indolence. "I was a librarian—didn't you know?"
"No. I wish you'd tell me, if you don't mind," said Allan. "About you, I mean, Phyllis. Do you know, I feel awfully married to you this afternoon—you've bullied me so much it's no wonder—and I really ought to know about my wife's dark past."
Phyllis's heart beat a little faster. She, too, had felt "awfully married" here alone in the fire-lit living-room, dealing so intimately and gayly with Allan.
"There isn't much to tell," she said soberly.
"Come over here closer," commanded Allan the spoilt. "We've both had all the tea we want. Come close by the couch. I want to see you when you talk."
Phyllis did as he ordered.