Phyllis threatened him with a b.u.t.tered m.u.f.fin.

"John Landless! I shall not speak to you again for--ten minutes."

It was the jolliest breakfast. Mrs. Farquharson's bacon was always crisp; she could tell a strictly fresh egg as far as she could see it; if you had tossed one of her m.u.f.fins into the air it would have floated out of the open window. "Tell her I said so," said John to little Genevieve.

It is a pity we know so little of Genevieve. One has an uneasy sense of having neglected her. Well--her young man loved her; and that is enough for Genevieve.

John stuffed the ma.n.u.script into his greatcoat pocket.

"Oh, dear, if I could only wish myself invisible for an hour and go with you to the publishers," said Phyllis. "It doesn't seem possible to wait until afternoon to hear what they say."

John reflected.

"You were going to Saint Ruth's this morning, weren't you?" he asked.

"Yes, I shall be there the whole morning. I don't believe one of those blessed babies will remember me. I have a little shopping to do, too."

"Why not do your shopping about eleven; meet me at Mildmay's, for luncheon, at one; and we will 'bus over to Saint Ruth's together, and make an afternoon of it."

Phyllis kissed him.

"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.

As they went in she nudged him.

"To the left, John. I want to sit at our little table."

The same waitress, too;--what smiles! Phyllis had chocolate because she liked chocolate; but John must have tea--because he had it before.

He told her of the interview with the publishers; the little book would appear in April; May at the latest.

The top of the motor-bus, of course.

From the crossing where they alighted one should take the street to the right to Saint Ruth's. John turned to the left, at once.

"I should never have forgiven you if you hadn't," said Phyllis, as they started eagerly down the mean street, in which noisy trams threatened the lives of ragged, venturesome children. Here was the very place! How slowly they had walked there, while he told her of his love. How long ago it seemed. Phyllis's hand found its way into John's pocket--and was welcomed there.

They got to Saint Ruth's, finally. Dr. Thorpe's greeting was cordial; Mrs. Thorpe kissed Phyllis affectionately. The men went to the warden's office; Mrs. Thorpe took Phyllis to her room. They had a long talk.

Phyllis found Mrs. Thorpe could be plain-spoken as well as kind.

"You did wrong, dear girl," she said, with her arms around her. "I know how hard it was to hear him utter those terrible untruths; but you should have been more patient. Nothing he said could injure any one--least of all your mother, who is now where there is no misunderstanding--and no pain. Your wounded heart impelled you to a mad act, dear girl; but your pride has kept you in the wrong. John Landless is a dear fellow--and Donald thinks he is a true poet. I have laughed at him until he is shy about mentioning his 'profession' to me. It is possible for you to be very happy. Soften your heart, dear girl, and you will find the truest happiness in the happiness of your uncle. Your mother would be the first to tell you to go to him and comfort his loneliness--if she could. The best joys of life come to us through self-surrender."

Phyllis laid her head in Mrs. Thorpe's lap and had a good cry; then she felt better.

"Promise?" asked Mrs. Thorpe, smiling.

"No, I won't promise," said Phyllis. "I couldn't promise now. But I will try."

"And now," said Mrs. Thorpe, "let's go and see the babies. There are some new ones since you were here; but one wee mite is gone, forever."

Phyllis sat on the floor among the babies, and played with them, until her cheeks were rosy and her golden hair disheveled. Between romps she told Mrs. Thorpe that John's book would soon be published.

"Well, that is good news!" exclaimed Mrs. Thorpe. "Donald will be so happy to hear of that. It is remarkable that he should have a book published so soon. Poems, too."

"Yes, it is remarkable," replied Phyllis demurely. "But then, John's talent is remarkable."

Meanwhile, in the warden's office, Dr. Thorpe sat at his desk and John sat on it, and swung his long legs. He told him about the book.

"By Jove! I congratulate you, with all my heart," said Dr. Thorpe warmly. "You will let me know the first day it is on sale. I shall wish to buy a copy."

"Buy a copy!" John demurred. "Well, upon my word! You and Mrs. Thorpe will receive a copy, affectionately inscribed by the author; the first copy off the press--the second, I should say."

Dr. Thorpe grinned.

"Let me buy it, John," he said. "I shall go from one bookshop to another, and in each I shall say,--'What! You haven't a copy of John Landless's book! The sensation of the hour! The book London is so eager to read that the presses can't turn them out fast enough! The book--'"

John threw his cap at him. They looked at each other in the abashed way of men between whom there is deep affection.

"Your publisher's telephone wires would be hot for an hour with orders,"

Dr. Thorpe concluded.

"You should be a man of business," said John. "If you were a publisher I should have had an easier time."

"Nonsense! You had little or no trouble--" began Dr. Thorpe.

"You are mistaken, Doctor," said John. "I had failed, and then Phyllis pulled the strings. I can't tell you how, though. That is a secret."

"I am prepared to believe anything of her. How buoyant and beautiful she is. By the way--anything from Sir Peter?"

"Not a word. She wrote him a note, asking for her collection of valentines. They were her mother's, and she wanted them. He sent the valentines, but no reply to her note."