It was after dinner, in the sweet, old-fashioned garden, that a conversation took place between Philip and Phyllis, which, had Mrs. Barrimore heard it, would have shaken her faith in judgment of character for ever.
Philip had gone out to smoke on the croquet lawn—a lawn raised above the rest of the garden and having great veteran oaks at one end, and banks of flowers on either side that smelt deliciously. A hammock was slung under one of the oaks, and Philip was about to get into it and enjoy his cigar, while Colonel Lane and Uncle Robert finished their wine, when a white-clad figure ran down the rustic steps that led from the terrace under the drawing-room windows to the lawn.
Philip walked back to meet Phyllis, who ran lightly over the soft turf.
“I do want a talk with you, Philip,” she said breathlessly. “I am just bursting with something I can tell no one but you.”
The moon lit her eager face as she looked up at him, and he saw that her news, whatever it might be, was at least very important to her.
“I am honored, Miss Lane,” he told her, smiling. “What is the great secret?”
“Oh, I do hope you won’t be angry and scold me! You must be my friend and pacify father!”
She linked her arm in his confidingly.
“We are such old friends, you and I, you know,” she went on, “and now it is all over I feel so frightened!”
“Well, tell me this dreadful thing you have done,” he said, laughing a little at her earnestness, for he did not expect any very important revelation to follow.