In nervous haste, Uncle Robert pounced upon one of the green volumes, opening it at the title page to show to his friend, who was now holding Annie Barrimore’s hand between his own two, and looking at her in that tender, adoring way, which never failed to call up the pretty girlish blush.
“Look! my boy!” cried Uncle Robert, beaming and swelling with pride, “Isn’t it nicely produced?
“Wings and Winds.
“By Robert Burns.
Take it in your hand man! Uncut edges, you see, and beautiful paper!”
Colonel Lane took the little volume and admired it, while the proud author struggled with the wire on a “magnum.”
All at once Phyllis, who had run to Philip in the smoking-room to inform him that her father had come, plucked at the parental sleeve.
“We didn’t expect you, dad,” she said, using that rapid manner of speech which was an indication in her case of excitement.
Colonel Lane kissed his daughter, noting with anxiety that she was certainly not looking well, also that her eyes did not meet his. His face softened as he looked at her, but changed and became severe when Philip came in wearing a patronizing smile.
“Ah, Colonel!” he said, as he extended a hand. “You are come at the right moment to congratulate the author of ‘Wings and Winds.’”
For Mrs. Barrimore’s sake Colonel Lane gave his hand to Philip with a show of friendliness, but the young man saw dislike in the fine, stern face.