“Oh-h-h-h!” sobbed Phyllis.
“Stop that nonsense!” said Philip sternly.
“I’m so glad to go to dear, dear Charlie,” cried Phyllis brokenly. “Charlie never scolded me. He never looked cross at me, like you do!”
Philip looked at the small, piquant face, that had now broken into smiles, and marvelled. Who can understand a woman?
Only a few days ago she was pining for Dan Webster, and bemoaning her hasty marriage. Now, there was no mistaking her joy at the idea of going to her husband!
“Oh, won’t it be a fine surprise to dad!” Phyllis continued, beginning to rattle on quite in her own natural way. “And how nice that Charlie has finished killing all those horrid natives! And Bombay! Won’t it be glorious to see Bombay! I am so glad I didn’t do—it!”
“Do what?” asked Philip, who did not feel interested.
“Oh! it was dreadful, Philip! I went up the East Hill, meaning to throw myself over the cliff, but I couldn’t, after all. It seemed so horribly desolate and awful up there by myself. I came down again, and I walked up Salters Lane, meaning to go to your mother. They all thought I was in my room. I went up to the station and I saw your bag. Tutt said you were off to London—and—”
Philip interrupted her. He had, in fact, not listened to a word. He had been thinking hard.
“Phyllis, we must go at once to the ‘Grand,’ and I must give you over to Mrs. Hurst. She will help me about outfit. You must have clothes, and your passage must be got. There is an awful lot to get through in the time.”