“Philip!” she ejaculated tragically, “I am miserable!”
“Whatever about?” inquired the young man rather sourly. He was for the moment miserable himself, and in no mood to hear Phyllis’s troubles.
“Oh, don’t look so cold and hard, Philip! You have always been my friend. I have always come to you.”
Philip was still smarting under Uncle Robert’s snub, and was still distinctly unsympathetic in manner.
“If the account of your misery is likely to be a long one, you had best put it off till after luncheon. The gong will sound directly,” he said.
“Oh, if you don’t want to hear!” ejaculated Phyllis childishly.
“But I do, dear,” said Philip, more kindly. (After all, it was scarcely manly to vent his ill-humor on this girl.) “You see, Phyllis, we should be interrupted,” he added, showing her his watch—a gold one and a gift from Uncle Robert.
“I almost wish I had never been born,” Phyllis asserted, not deigning to look at the watch. She came close to Philip, clutching his arm and peering up at him with childish, troubled eyes. “Philip, don’t let Mr. Webster go to the White House,” she blurted out.
“Why?” he asked her in amazement.
“Oh, that has nothing to do with it,” she answered incoherently. “Stop him from going. You can if you like. Do! do! dear Philip!”