John clutched at this reprieve.
"I have a class at Saint Ruth's at seven," he said. "I must hurry away, Miss Oglebay." Burbage was helping Phyllis with her furs.
It was arranged he should call early the following morning. They exchanged significant looks, and he was gone. A ring, set with old-fashioned garnets, was left in the hand he had pressed; one of his mother's rings, worn on his watch-chain. Phyllis seized Burbage and danced her up and down the hall and back again, demoralizing the rugs. Then, having picked up her muff and thrown it at her, Phyllis raced up the stairs.
IV
Sir Peter was gruff at the breakfast table. The hurriedly written telegram, or his hasty reading of it, had led him a wild-goose chase. To find your host concealing surprise as he shakes hands, and to learn, at the end of ten minutes of feverish cordiality, that you were invited to dine the following night, is never comfortable, even at the home of an old friend. When two hours on a train each way are involved, and loss of one's sleep as well——! A bleak east wind, this morning, too, and Sir Peter was Jarndyced as to that quarter.
Worst of all, Phyllis looked like her mother, with her hair over her ears, like that; the likeness always irritated Sir Peter, but this morning it was particularly striking.
He accepted her morning endearments graciously, but Phyllis was glad the toast wasn't cold. She recognized unpropitious portents.
John was shown into the library at ten, sharp; his chin had come to his rescue. He gave Phyllis a bright look, and led up to the business in hand promptly.
Sir Peter, savoring his cigar, "The Times" spread over his knees, invited the young man to be seated; the young man preferred to stand, and did, very straight, his back to the fireplace. His eyes were large and serious his color high; his hands were behind him and the nervous fingers couldn't be seen. Phyllis viewed her champion with approving eyes, and sat on the edge of her chair.