Phyllis scarcely heeded Uncle Robert, she was so astonished at the appearance of Dan Webster. His eyes were no longer shaded, and she saw for the first time how merry and bright they were. He carried a racket and was wearing flannels.
A feeling of acute annoyance succeeded to that of surprise in the mind of Phyllis.
This was the first real view Dan had had of her, and she was hot and dishevelled from her long cycle ride in dusty lanes.
Phyllis never at any time deceived herself regarding her looks. She knew that she was not, strictly speaking, pretty; but she knew that she usually gave other people the impression that she was so. She had a good skin, good eyes, and a wonderful play of expression. She knew how to make the very most of every point she had; and in the matter of dress had coquetry which was never vulgar.
But now poor Phyllis was conscious of her dusty serge skirt, her crumpled muslin blouse, her damp, disarranged hair. She had also more than a suspicion that her face was smeared with dust. It was hot and damp from cycling, and, of course, the dust would stick. She remembered in a flash that a motor-car had covered her with such a cloud of dust that she had nearly choked.
Dan Webster came up smiling, with hand extended.
“Congratulate me, Miss Lane,” he said gaily, “I am no longer blind.”
“I almost wish you were!” laughed Phyllis a little hysterically, “for then you wouldn’t be able to see how untidy I am.”
Dan laughed. “I am a cyclist myself,” he told her, “and I have often reached home looking like a tramp. But you look quite fresh.”
Poor Phyllis winced under this palpable untruth.