"Oh-h!" said Phyllis, behind him. The little forlorn sound hurt him, but it pleased him, too. So he could hurt her, if only by rudeness? Well, that was a satisfaction. "Shut the door," he ordered Wallis swiftly.
Phyllis, her hands at her throat, stood hurt and frightened in the middle of the room. It never occurred to her that Allan was jealous, or indeed that he could care enough for her to be jealous.
"It was talking about Louise Frey," she said. "That, and Dr. Hewitt bringing up old times. Oh, why did I ask about her? He was contented—I know he was contented! He'd gotten to like having me with him—he even wanted me. Oh, Allan, Allan!"
She did not want to cry downstairs, so she ran for her own room. There she threw herself down and cried into a pillow till most of the case was wet. She was silly—she knew she was silly. She tried to think of all the things that were still hers, the garden, the watch-bracelet, the leisure, the pretty gowns—but nothing, nothing seemed of any consequence beside the fact that—she had not kissed Allan good-night! It seemed the most intolerable thing that had ever happened to her.
XIV
It was just as well, perhaps, that Phyllis did not do much sleeping that night, for at about two Wallis knocked at her door. It seemed like history repeating itself when he said: "Could you come to Mr. Allan, please? He seems very bad."
She threw on the silk crepe negligee and followed him, just as she had done before, on that long-ago night after her mother-in-law had died.
"Did Dr. Hewitt's visit overexcite him, do you think?" he asked as they went.
"I don't know, ma'am," Wallis said. "He's almost as bad as he was after the old madam died—you remember?"