“What a curious specimen!” said Philip, as the silk skirts disappeared through the door. “You had better look out or she will hang on to you, as you are staying here.”
“She would, I am sure,” laughed Browne; “but I go back to London to-morrow morning.”
“I go back to Hastings to-morrow, too,” answered Philip.
“Well, we will enjoy to-night together, at any rate,” Browne concluded.
It had been a good thing for Philip that he had met Browne that night. Depression had been playing up with him more than he knew.
He was at a loss to understand why he had felt so wretchedly blue since Phyllis had gone. It was certainly not the loss of that erratic young woman that had caused it. It was certainly not the loss of the manuscript, for he had come to dislike the book heartily since Miss Le Breton had not liked it. The strained relations at Hawk’s Nest were no new thing.
Philip was at a loose end, and his one desire was to open his heart to Dan’s “Madonna.”
But would it be fair to Dan?
After all, there was nothing definite between Dan and his “Madonna”—as yet. There could be no harm in going to the White House and getting a little comfort for himself.
He had quite forgotten his idea of making a marriage which should help his career! The man had done this in his story. He now heartily despised that man, who was so unpleasantly like himself. Possibly the self-knowledge that had mysteriously come to him had something to do with his depression.