Philip Barrimore’s new book was growing to his full satisfaction under his pen, despite the frequent interruptions occasioned by the visits of Phyllis Lane.
Phyllis had received one letter from her husband—a cheerful letter, which touched only lightly on the dangers he was going to encounter in quelling the native rising—the purpose for which he had been sent out. He did earnestly beg permission to inform Colonel Lane of their secret marriage, expressing regret that they could not have been open about it all.
This angered Phyllis. She knew that she alone was responsible for the secret marriage. She had clamored for it; she had insisted, even with tears, partly because she wanted to prove to her father that she was a young woman not to be thwarted, and partly because the spice of romance appealed to her.
No, she would certainly not give Charlie permission to make a clean breast of it, she told Philip. It was really very unkind of Charlie to worry her like this, when he must know that she had quite enough to bear, thinking of him “millions and millions of miles away,” and very likely getting himself killed by those horrid natives.
That was the way Phyllis had spoken to Philip. But she had written over about a quire of paper to her husband, using the most extravagant endearments, but telling him that if he wanted to make her bear all the brunt of their escapade by herself—well, he had only to do what he proposed and inform her father.
She walked down to the General Post Office with this precious letter to get it weighed before posting.
As she was fixing the stamps, who should enter the office but Colonel Lane himself. Close behind him was a woman, who had a dog on a leash.
Colonel Lane looked with some curiosity at the address of the letter which required so much extra postage.
Then he saw.
He would not make a scene in a public place. He would follow his daughter outside, and ask her not to post the letter till they had had a little conversation about it.