"I beg you to say no more, sir. I assure you there is not an unkind thought in my heart. Let the dead past bury its dead." John hesitated; then stammered out—"Fine weather we are having, sir."
Sir Peter offered his hand again; their grasp was cordial. Each looked straight into the other's eyes.
"Oh, dear," said Phyllis, pushing the big armchair nearer the fire. "Isn't everything lovely!"
She coaxed her uncle into the chair with a pretty gesture, and seated herself in a smaller one, with a happy little sigh.
There was a tap at the door.
John opened to Mrs. Farquharson; she curtseyed.
"You were wishful to see me, my d——ma'am?" she asked.
Phyllis laughed gayly. "You are wonderful, Farquharson," she said. "I have been thinking for five minutes how nice it would be if my uncle dined with us; if it were quite convenient for you."
"As ever could be," said Mrs. Farquharson. "I sent Genevieve for another chicken as soon as ever he was in this room. You never saw a plumper."
"Isn't she wonderful?" Phyllis turned to her uncle. "Uncle Peter, you must be formally presented to my dear Farquharson, my old nurse. Farquharson—Sir Peter Oglebay, my uncle."