Philip felt a strange stiffness come into his facial muscles. A strange pain gripped his heart.
“Don’t tell me! I won’t listen to this, Phyllis. You have no right to discuss your father in this way.”
“Cross-patch!” cried Miss Phyllis. “You wait and see, that’s all!”
They had reached the gate of Hawk’s Nest.
It was evident that the rest of the party were home before them.
Two figures—a tall, soldierly man and a slight, graceful woman—were pacing the croquet lawn in the moonlight. It was so moonlight that the shadows of the big oak-trees had etched themselves upon the lawn.
Philip, forgetful of his companion, strode across the rustic bridge that spanned a brook, and up the terrace at big bounds, to the open French window of the dining-room, where the electric light showed Dan with his green shade and Uncle Robert with his coat off.
“‘Satire should, like a polished razor keen, Wound with a touch that’s scarcely felt or seen,’” came in Uncle Robert’s stentorian tones.
“Where’s the mater?” asked Philip, though he knew very well.
“In the garden with Colonel Lane, my boy,” answered Uncle Robert. “I should have thought you could not have come in without seeing them—a moonlight night like this, when—”