“She may come up with the morning tide,” he told himself. “If she does, what matter about a lie, God forgive me? God help me, what matter about anything?”
If she did not, he would stick to his story, so that when she came back, wherever she had been, she would come home as an honest woman.
“And will be, too,” he thought. “Yes, will be, too, spite of all their dirty tongues—as sure as the Lord's in heaven.”
The dog trotted on in front of him as he turned up towards Ballure.
XIX.
Philip had not eaten much that night at dinner. He had pecked at the wing of a fowl, been restless, absent, preoccupied, and like a man struggling for composure. At intervals he had listened as for a step or a voice, then recovered himself and laughed a little.
Auntie Nan had explained his uneasiness on grounds of natural excitement after the doings of the great day. She had loaded his plate with good things, and chirruped away under the light of the lamp.
“So sweet of you, Philip, not to forget Pete amid all your success. He's really such a good soul. It would break his heart if you neglected him. Simple as a child, certainly, and of course quite uneducated, but——”
“Pete is fit to be the friend of any one, Auntie.”