"They said you would not come. They lied. I knew they lied. Oh, Phil! the joy to see you. My sweet! My sweet!"
The girl made an effort to withdraw her hands. What had happened? What did it mean?
"Oh, no!" she stammered. "It is a mistake—I do not know—— You are mistaking me for somebody else. I——"
He held her hands closer, closer, until they were pressed against his breast.
"Mistake?" he echoed with a little sound—it was hardly a laugh—of triumph and content.
"Mistake! Love makes no mistake!" and all the while his eyes burnt into hers with an intensity of passion and of longing.
"But yes—" she faltered. It was difficult to find words against the ardour of his gaze. "Yes, I am Philippa Harford. I must have mistaken the room. Believe me, I am sorry——"
"Philippa Harford!" and again that little sound broke from him, half sob, half sigh, and clearly indicative of infinite joy, a joy too deep to be expressed in words. "My Phil!—as if I should not know! Sun in my shadows—light in my darkness—darkness which surrounded and overwhelmed, and in which I groped in vain, and only clung to you."
He spoke her name as if the very repetition of it told the sum of his content. "Phil!—and I not know!—and my love's violets!" Releasing one hand he touched the flowers she wore. "And the little heart—the same! Your heart and mine!"
He led her, compelled against her will, unresisting to a sofa. Philippa sank upon it overwhelmed and almost nerveless under the stress of his emotion. He placed himself beside her, half sitting, half kneeling at her feet.