Barbara let herself into her own apartment with her key, and for a few moments an awkward silence prevailed, broken at last by Tom.
"I think I shall adopt a Margery rampant, with a quinine capsule in the quartering, for my coat of arms," he said. "I've an idea our queer little friend, with a constitutional idiosyncrasy against that drug, has done me a great service. She has proved that you do not quite hate me, do you, Babbie?"
"No, Tom; but you—you like Phyllis," stammered Bab.
"Like her! I love her—the unselfish, dear, good girl!" cried Tom. "Have you been jealous of Phyllis? Then you love me, Barbara. You couldn't be jealous unless you did! I did imagine once that of all the dear Wyndhams, Phyllis might be dearest; but it was a mistake. I saw straight after she was gone. I never loved her—not that way, Bab; I only fancied that I might. But I do love Phyllis so much that I want her for my cousin. Will you make her my cousin, Babbie?"
"She is much nicer than I," said Bab, very low, without raising her eyes, and clinging to her last moment of freedom.
"Bab, don't waste any more time; you have treated me badly enough, heaven knows, and I haven't enjoyed it. Tell me you love me, this instant," said Tom, in a tone which Barbara might have resented had not her recent fright and humiliation subdued her.
"I love you, Tom," she repeated meekly, and straightway forgot all doubt, all fear, in perfect happiness.
When Jessamy came home she nearly dropped in the doorway; for there was Bab throned in the window, looking radiantly pretty with the depth of joy and womanly sweetness the events of the afternoon had called into her face, and beside her, on a low stool, sat Tom, looking entirely blissful and unusually humble.
He sprang up as he saw Jessamy. "Come to your brother, Jessamy!" he cried. "Bab has promised to marry me."