She had meant to ask Phyllis afterwards what she wanted the colors for, but had forgotten it. She now thought that possibly Phyllis had been inspired by Dan’s painting to try her hand in secret, so she went up the flight of steep stairs that led to the big attic, which Uncle Robert had converted into a studio.
There, sure enough, she found the forlorn Phyllis, seated on Dan’s stool, at Dan’s easel, producing something on canvas, which brought a smile of amusement to Mrs. Barrimore’s face, which she quickly hid for fear of hurting the amateur artist’s feelings.
“I have been looking for you everywhere, dear,” began Mrs. Barrimore brightly. “I had no idea you had taken up painting.”
“One must do something,” said Phyllis petulantly, throwing down her brushes. “This weather is just detestable—rain—rain—rain—and everything’s so miserable! Oh, forgive me, dear Mrs. Barrimore! How horrid I am! and how ungrateful after all your kindness to talk so!”
Phyllis had caught sight of the pained look her first words had brought up on the gentle face of her friend and hostess, and had felt ashamed and sorry in a moment.
Mrs. Barrimore’s arms were protectingly round the wilful girl before half the apology had been uttered.
This was her dearest friend’s only child.
“Phyllis darling,” the elder woman said, affection shining in her eyes, “tell me what is the matter. You have no mother, can’t you trust me? I have been so troubled about you, and I am going to be quite frank and above-board with you. I have written to your father to say I don’t think you are well, and he—”
“What does dad say?” demanded Phyllis, drawing her head back from the friendly bosom, to gaze into the elder woman’s eyes.
“He thinks you have again fallen in love.”