“Why, we’ll have a week from to-morrow come on—let me see!—on Monday. Will that do?”
“Really? And will you be at home?”
Betty nodded. Phillip held forth his hand again.
“But we’ve said good-by once,” she demurred.
“Let’s say it again.”
He watched her until the door had closed and then swung gaily toward Cambridge. He would walk back, he told himself, because the car had yet to be made that was large enough to hold him.
[CHAPTER XII]
On Friday at three o’clock Phillip strode through the crowd of bundle-laden men and women in front of the waiting-room in the square and, stationing himself on the curbstone under John’s front window, gazed upward and yelled lustily until John stuck his head out and said: