“Not yet; no, I thought I would wait till to-night,” Mr. Beresford replied, and Phil continued:
“Don’t see him, then; I will take the place. Write so to your uncle at once, or perhaps I had better write myself.”
Something in the tone of his voice made Mr. Beresford turn quickly and look at him.
“Why, Phil,” he said, “what ails you? What has happened to make you look so white and strange?”
“Nothing,” Phil answered—“that is, nothing of any consequence to any one but myself.” Then, moved by a sudden impulse to tell somebody, Phil burst out: “Beresford, I can trust you, I know, for you have always been my friend.”
“Yes,” faltered Mr. Beresford, thinking remorsefully of what he said to Reinette, and wondering if Phil would think that friendly, if he knew.
“I must tell somebody—talk to somebody, or go crazy,” Phil continued. “The fact is, I have made a fool of myself and been rejected, as I deserved.”
“You rejected! By whom?” Mr. Beresford asked, although he felt that he knew perfectly well what the answer would be.
“By Reinette, of course. What other woman is there on the face of the earth whose no is worth caring for? I asked her to be my wife, and she refused, and made me know she meant it; and now I am going to India, for I cannot stay here.”
“What reason did she give for her refusal?” Mr. Beresford asked, feeling like a guilty hypocrite, and Phil replied: