“‘Invention breeds invention,’ as Emerson says,” chimed in Uncle Robert. “Ideas are like yeast, and multiply before your eyes.”
“Mine don’t,” retorted Philip crossly. “I have been in a blind alley for a week or more.”
“Never mind, dear,” said Mrs. Barrimore cheerfully. “You have got your bungalow, so you will have peace and quietness. But we shall miss you. We did to-day, didn’t we, Phyllis?”
Mrs. Barrimore turned her sweet eyes on the girl at her son’s side. Phyllis was fresh as a flower.
“We did miss you,” Phyllis admitted, with another bright glance at Philip. “But Mr. Burns played tennis in your place.”
Her face broke into roguish dimples and her eyes danced.
That Phyllis was making fun of Uncle Robert was patent to everyone—to Uncle Robert himself even. It was not her words, but the tone in which they were uttered. But only one person noted that Mrs. Barrimore’s sweet mouth grew a little rigid, while her eyes, usually so dove-like, had for a moment sparks of angry fire in their clear grey—and that person was Colonel Lane; but he had a way of noting every transient expression that changed for a moment the habitual sweetness and gentleness of that particular face. The mother of Phyllis had not been sweet or gentle, and her death, some years since, had brought the first lull in the turmoil of Colonel Lane’s life.
“Miss Phyllis is getting at me,” observed Uncle Robert, with perfect good humor. “Horace says: ‘The years, as they come, bring with them many things to our advantage.’ They also sometimes bring an overplus of fat! Beware, Miss Phyllis! One day you may have a double chin!”
He hitched his falling table-napkin into his capacious waistcoat. Uncle Robert was certainly stout.
“I think it was very sweet of my brother to play tennis on this hot day, rather than let the game fall through,” said Mrs. Barrimore, with an affectionate glance at Uncle Robert.