Philip felt as if he had been suddenly transported from a calm lake to the maelstrom. Phyllis and calm were impossible to be considered in conjunction. He resigned himself and rang the bell.
“I am going to stay on to luncheon,” announced this self-willed young woman, “so you may as well tell Davis when you ask for the lemonade.”
“Are you aware that this conduct of yours is very irregular, young woman?” inquired Philip with a whimsical smile.
“All my conduct is!” she affirmed, with wide, innocent-looking eyes meeting his.
He did not contradict her. After all, as he had already decided, it was better that Phyllis, the wayward and irrepressible, should play the fool with him, out of the “danger area,” than with another. She would inevitably play the fool.
“Bring some lemonade, Davis,” he said to the ex-soldier; “and Miss Lane will stay on to luncheon.”
Davis saluted.
“After luncheon, you must show me the White House and Pickett’s Farm,” Phyllis next said, “and the new stable.”
Philip glanced despairingly at his writing-table.
“You are not going to work till I am gone,” the girl said, noting the glance.