Never again would he love, he told himself, for which reason he allowed himself a certain freedom with the women-folk who gathered about his mother. Some of these were pretty girls, too, and charming enough to stir any ordinary man’s pulses. Phyllis Lane, for instance, was bewitching, if not exactly pretty.
Barrimore suddenly remembered that on this particular day there had been a garden-party at his mother’s, and Phyllis and her father, Colonel Lane, were staying on to dinner. He must hurry or he would be late.
CHAPTER II
A CONFESSION
“Well, Philip, what about the bungalow?” asked Uncle Robert, as Barrimore entered the dining-room, where all the others were already seated.
Barrimore was flushed and cross, owing to a struggle with his collar.
“I have taken it for three years,” answered the young man, going round to greet his mother’s guests before taking his place at table.
“Ah, well,” rejoined Uncle Robert, beaming. “Dryden says: ‘There is a pleasure sure in being mad, which none but madmen know.’ ‘The Spanish Friar’ it occurs in, I believe. It is a mad act going to live alone in the country, but no doubt you will find a pleasure that we know not of.”
“Mr. Barrimore won’t get interrupted at his work, and that will be a pleasure,” put in Phyllis Lane, darting a bright glance at Philip, whose seat was next to hers.
“What is the new book to be about?” inquired the Colonel, “if it is not a crime to ask.”
“I scarcely know myself yet,” replied Barrimore. “My stories grow under my pen. None of my stories turn out what I expected at first.”