"You can take the check now, Rowlandson," he said, brokenly; "I shall go to her—and bring them home to-morrow."
He dropped into his chair, and covered his face with his hands; Mr. Rowlandson turned to the fireplace. He drew from his pocketbook the note Phyllis had signed, and held it in the grate until it blazed. Then he puckered his mouth, curiously, as if trying to whistle. When he faced Sir Peter again, his blue eyes twinkled.
"You owe me a shilling for a new glass for my Charterhouse print," said he.
Ten minutes later, when Mr. Rowlandson left the house, Burbage opened the door. He carried a parcel that clinked, as he stepped out, briskly.
"Will you require anything further, Sir Peter?" asked Burbage.
"Yes. Have Miss Phyllis's little study-room, and the two adjoining bedrooms made ready, Burbage. My niece and her husband are coming home to-morrow."
X
As John lay between sleep and waking, the next morning, he was conscious that in a moment he would capture an elusive, happy thought.
He had it! The book could now be published!