“I am sure Mr. Burns played very well,” Phyllis hastened to say, feeling that Mrs. Barrimore, of whom she was very fond, was angry with her.
“My dear little girl,” said Uncle Robert, “I know I look like an exaggerated tennis ball myself, and if I amuse you by my antics, so much the better. There is no duty we so much under-rate as the duty of being happy; Stevenson says that. Be happy, my dear, even if laughing at me makes you so!”
“Oh, but I wasn’t laughing at you, Mr. Burns,” protested Phyllis. “I admired your pluck in playing on such a roasting day—and you are a little stout, you know.”
Phyllis spoke so seriously that everyone laughed except her father. Colonel Lane frowned. He thought his daughter’s allusion to the stoutness of Mr. Burns in bad taste, and meant to tell her so when they should be alone.
“Tell us about the bungalow, Philip,” said Mrs. Barrimore, to change the conversation. (She had caught sight of the Colonel’s frown.)
“It is a jolly little place,” said Philip; “covered with rambler roses. I brought you some. There are no houses near—not very near. The nearest has a big field between it and the bungalow. There is a fir plantation in front, on the other side of the road. They are going to build me a stable, and I shall hire a horse from Dick Russel, so that I can ride over and see you. Yes, I shall hire it. I don’t mean to buy another now poor Jingo is dead. I can’t bring myself to replace an old favorite.”
The mother looked at her son with critical sadness. She was thinking of Eweretta in her grave in Canada. She did want him to replace Eweretta—and Phyllis was a charming girl.
Certainly, Captain Arbuthnot paid a good deal of court to Phyllis, but it was inconceivable to Mrs. Barrimore that Phyllis could prefer anyone to Philip.
Mrs. Barrimore saw in Phyllis a good, dutiful and very charming wife, suitable in every way to this son of hers. Phyllis might not be decidedly pretty, but she was very good-looking; and, what counted for more, was quite above deception of any kind. She was the kind of “open” girl one could read like a book.
So thought Mrs. Barrimore.