“Surgit post nubila Phœbus,” completed Dan mischievously.
“Ha! ha!” laughed Uncle Robert. “Motto of London Coachmakers’ Company.”
Philip did not join in the laugh. He sat down, frowning, and refused a cigar when Uncle Robert passed the box within reach.
Uncle Robert winked at Dan, which signal was lost upon the young man owing to his eyes being covered.
Uncle Robert had meant to indicate his opinion that Phyllis and Philip had had a “tiff.”
Phyllis peeped in at the open door, presenting a roguish face, in which were set two adorable dimples. “Mr. Burns,” she called softly, “what time is it?”
“A quarter to eleven, my dear,” said Uncle Robert.
“Dad!” shouted Phyllis. “It is a quarter to eleven.”
After that she skipped daintily into the room with a flutter of frills, and coming up to the table on which Dan was leaning stooped quite close and said: “How sad you can’t see the moonlight to-night, Mr. Webster. It is a perfect, perfect night!”
Mrs. Barrimore came in just then. The electric light tried her eyes evidently, for she held her hand up to shade them.