“I say, it’s dreadfully difficult for me to call you Mrs. Miller. Philip never calls you anything but Mildred.”
“I daresay she won’t scratch your eyes out if you call her that too,” laughed Philip.
“Then she must call me Harry.”
Philip sat silent while they chattered away and thought how good it was to see people happy. Now and then Griffiths teased him a little, kindly, because he was always so serious.
“I believe he’s quite fond of you, Philip,” smiled Mildred.
“He isn’t a bad old thing,” answered Griffiths, and taking Philip’s hand he shook it gaily.
It seemed an added charm in Griffiths that he liked Philip. They were all sober people, and the wine they had drunk went to their heads. Griffiths became more talkative and so boisterous that Philip, amused, had to beg him to be quiet. He had a gift for story-telling, and his adventures lost nothing of their romance and their laughter in his narration. He played in all of them a gallant, humorous part. Mildred, her eyes shining with excitement, urged him on. He poured out anecdote after anecdote. When the lights began to be turned out she was astonished.
“My word, the evening has gone quickly. I thought it wasn’t more than half past nine.”
They got up to go and when she said good-bye, she added:
“I’m coming to have tea at Philip’s room tomorrow. You might look in if you can.”