To Phyllis this praise of Aimée Le Breton was a pang, the reason for which she was then far from guessing.
“Philip talked to her a lot,” said Dan. “I envied him.”
“What! did Philip go?” asked Mrs. Barrimore. “Poor Philip! what a stoic he is! Why should he subject himself to the occasion of such sorrowful memories?”
“Philip seemed to like talking to her,” Dan assured Mrs. Barrimore. “He quite came out, and discussed his books.”
“He always does,” affirmed Uncle Robert, upon which he received a very reproachful look from his sister.
“Isn’t it natural that the boy should like to talk about his books?” she asked. “You like to talk about yours.”
“Mine will be out soon,” said Uncle Robert, bursting with pride. “You shall have a copy, Dan. I shall buy up a whole lot to encourage the publishers. I am anxious to see what the Athenæum and the Saturday will have to say about it. I showed one or two of the poems to Philip, and he did not seem appreciative. These fellows who write fiction only don’t seem to care about poetry. Now I am different. I like to write poetry, but I like to read everything—even the modern novel—though I confess to getting more pleasure out of the Elizabethan writers than out of the most modern men. Fill up your glass, Dan!
‘Wine whets the wit, improves its native force,
And gives a pleasant flavor to discourse.’
Pomfret wrote that. He knew a good deal of truth for a parson—I beg your pardon, Annie! you don’t like that kind of remark, I know.”
Mrs. Barrimore rose. “Phyllis and I will leave you to ‘whet your wits,’” she said with a smile.