They sat in the big armchair together, and read the poems to be included in the little book.
"If I succeed in my profession I shall owe it all to you," said John to Phyllis; and, when she would have made remonstrance, he added,—"Ah, my dear, I like to have it so."
At the same hour, that evening, Sir Peter sat before his library fire. An open magazine lay on his knee, pages downward. He held an unlighted cigar in his hand. He stared moodily into the glowing coals. There were new, sad lines in his stern face.
Burbage entered. "Mr. Rowlandson to see you, sir. A very particular matter, sir, he says."
Sir Peter rose slowly when Mr. Rowlandson was shown into the room. Under his arm were three parcels.
"Glad to see you, Rowlandson," said Sir Peter. "How have you been since we met last? H'm. It must be two years, or longer."
"Thank you. I have enjoyed very good health, Sir Peter. Yes, it is all of two years. I hope you are quite well, sir."
"Fair; fair," said Sir Peter.
"We do not get younger as we grow older," observed Mr. Rowlandson. He laid two of the parcels on the big table, under the reading-lamp, and proceeded to untie the other.