CHAPTER XVII
“YES, it’s really me!” said Jack at last, lifting his head from among the soft fair curls that nestled against his breast. “Yes, you precious little ‘rose-lady’! Really me! And it’s all the Philosopher.”
Sylvia started out of his caressing arms with a shock of surprise.
“The Philosopher?” she echoed.
“Just him!” And Jack, grown thinner, but not less good-looking, shed a whole sun-ray of tenderness upon her from his clear, brave, blue eyes. “You wouldn’t have thought it—but he’s a regular brick! A brick? He’s an entire edifice!”
The Sentimentalist clasped her little white hands together and gazed at him in rapture—she could hardly believe he was there before her actually living and well!
“Oh, Jack, do tell me!” she exclaimed. “What do you mean? What has the Philosopher done?”
Jack put his arm round her waist and drew her to the sofa where he sat down by her side.
“He has done everything, dear!” he said. “He’s the trump card of the whole game! He discovered me!”
“Discovered you?” Sylvia gazed at him in bewilderment.