“But I haven’t any more money—except sixpence,” said Phyllis.
“Oh, don’t worry,” answered Philip testily. “I have got money, and someone will square up things after. By the way, Arbuthnot’s uncle has died.”
“How nice and considerate of him!” exclaimed Phyllis. “You see, he was pretty old, so it couldn’t matter to him much, could it? and it matters a lot to Charlie and me. Dear old Charlie! Charlie will pay you back, Philip, and I want heaps of things. I must go nice, mustn’t I?”
“You are anything but nice now,” Philip told her with brutal frankness. “And it isn’t very nice for me to have you inquiring for me here.”
“I can call you ‘papa’ as we go out,” said Phyllis. “That would make it all right—now wouldn’t it?”
Philip flushed angrily. He began to hate Phyllis.
“It is all so deliciously romantic,” she went on. “And Dan will have a pill to swallow, won’t he?”
“He won’t care a twopenny damn,” answered Philip. “And now we will go, please.”
Philip could not be civil. The girl’s sudden high spirits irritated him unspeakably. She had worried his life out. She had placed him in a false position. He had still to face her father. What did she care about the trouble she caused everyone? She was delighted with the romance of going out to Bombay.
Philip did not envy Arbuthnot.