“I think I shall go round and make the Colonel come in. He has forsaken us of late,” said Uncle Robert.
That faint, girlish pink came and went in Mrs. Barrimore’s face as her brother spoke, but she said nothing.
“Dinner is at eight to-night, isn’t it?” asked Mr. Burns.
“Yes, dear,” answered his sister.
“Then I shall go round at once and bring the Colonel to dine, and little Phil too, if I can get them. Let the servants know, Annie.”
Mrs. Barrimore and Dan Webster were watching from the terrace from which they had a view of the drive gate.
It was not till a quarter to eight that Uncle Robert’s voice made itself heard to herald the advent of the trio. Yes, both Colonel Lane and Phyllis were with him. It was observable that Phyllis had made a very careful toilet. She had evidently resolved to remove the impression she had made an hour or two earlier.
Colonel Lane looked tired and less alert than was his wont. His eyes searched the face of Mrs. Barrimore with an appeal like that in the eyes of a dog. This dear woman had always sympathized, had always understood.
A very lonely man was this grizzled soldier, a man who had outlived relatives—and comrades whom he had loved. Phyllis, the child he adored now, as all left to him, was a continual thorn in the flesh. She was flighty, and thoughtless, and she flirted with every man she met. Her father was in a continual ferment about her. His anxiety made him appear harsh, whereas he had the tenderest heart in the world.
Mrs. Barrimore had refused to marry him, but she had promised to be his dearest friend. A poor pittance he had thought it at the time, when he had longed to call her wife.