"What a perfectly delightful plan!" she exclaimed. "How shall I find Mildmay's? Oh! John, dear; how much has happened since then."
"No regrets yet?" he asked, searching her eyes.
She put her hands on the lapels of his coat.
"Not even one tiny, little regret," said Phyllis.
As he ran down the stairs, however, she called after him.
"Oh, John! I forgot. I have one regret."
"What is it?" he asked.
"Harpalus"—whispered Phyllis, leaning over the banister; and kissed her hand to him.
Phyllis's truthful eyes had not hidden from John, this morning, or ever, that her heart was often saddened by thoughts of her uncle. She knew his way of life so well; could tell, at any hour, what he was probably doing. She could picture his lonely evenings. Alas, she knew his pride; and her own; John's, too. She often thought of her letter to him, with its hint of reconciliation; she wondered if she should have said more. Then his cruel words about her mother—As often she concluded she had said all there was to say. And she would turn her thoughts elsewhere, so that the bitter remembrance might not spoil the sweetness of these days.
John waited for her at the entrance to Mildmay's. The moment she saw him she knew all was well.