"It is a lie!" cried Phyllis. "A cruel, cruel lie! God pity you, Uncle Peter, and forgive you. I am sorry for you; I am sorry for you. You have nursed those bitter, black thoughts in your heart for so many years that they have poisoned your life. But you have soiled my mother's memory for the last time in my presence. Never, never again!" A great sob choked her. "I am going to leave you, Uncle Peter. I am grateful to you for many years of generous, loving kindness. Indeed, I do not forget them; indeed, I am grateful. But I cannot stay here any longer. I should be miserable—wretched if I stayed. I cannot breathe in this room—in this house." She rocked her body as if in pain. She would have said more, but——
"Go, then!" said Sir Peter, through set teeth.
Phyllis ran from the room and out of the house, bareheaded; John snatched his hat and stick in the hall and overtook her as she fled through the iron grille. They ran together a short distance. Then Phyllis slackened the pace to a rapid walk. She was breathless, her hands pressed to her heart; a maid distraught. Pitiful, inarticulate little cries escaped her from time to time. John walked beside her, silently. They passed through the gates of the park, and she walked more slowly. Slowly, and still more slowly they wandered, aimlessly, under the leafless trees. She turned to him at last, her lips blue with the cold.
"You must take care of me now, John. I have no one else," she said quietly.
V
Was it Dr. Johnson who remarked that one great charm of London is that you may walk in a crowded street, eating a twopenny bun, without attracting a second glance? Or was it Benjamin Franklin? Not that it matters.
On a wintry morning, in a public conveyance a hatless and coatless young woman of unusual beauty, and a very self-conscious young man, sitting beside her, were not annoyed by more than a curious stare or two.
John had suggested a cab.
"We must economize from the very beginning," said Phyllis, with a wan smile.