“It’s all right now,” said Dan cheerfully, “we can ride on together. Have you been to the bungalow?” he added with a twinkle in his eye.
“Oh, yes,” answered Phyllis, “and Philip was so disagreeable!”
“You interfered with his work, I expect,” laughed Dan. “That is a sure and certain way of making an author disagreeable.”
They rode on for a time without speaking, for the snorting of a motor-car made itself heard, and all their wits were needed to keep well out of the way of the monster.
When the motor had passed Dan said: “I am sad to think I shall soon be going away, Miss Lane. My work at the White House is nearly finished.”
Phyllis felt her throat suddenly constricted. She averted her head. She could not answer.
“Possibly I may see your father,” went on Dan, swerving a little to avoid some sharp stones. “You see, East Dulwich is not far from Dulwich village, where I live.”
“Father will be glad to see you,” she said coldly—the more coldly that she had so much warmth to hide.
“I shall be glad enough to see him anyway, if I get the chance,” went on Dan. “Take care, Miss Lane! you very nearly went into the ditch!”
“How stupid of me!” said Phyllis tonelessly. “There is room enough in this road, too.”