Sir Peter concealed his impatience; the dull ache in Phyllis's heart continued, she knew not why.

"I met Miss Oglebay at Saint Ruth's some months ago. I think I must tell you, sir, that from the very first moment I loved her."

Sir Peter half rose from his chair, in his sudden astonishment.

"The devil you say!" he gasped. "Upon my word, this is effrontery. You amaze me, Landless. You must have lost your senses. My niece"--he turned to Phyllis. Something he saw in her face diverted the torrent "Has Landless spoken of this to you?" he asked grimly.

"Yes, Uncle Peter. He told me yesterday that he--he cared for me, and we both hurried home to tell you, but you were----"

Sir Peter was out of his chair, and on his feet, now.

"You spoke to my niece before you came to me, Landless; knowing that I had met you--not more than three times, at most; that you had been in my house but once?" His voice was raised, his scowl threatening.

"I am sorry to have seen so little of you, sir," said John. "But I have seen a great deal of Phyllis."

"Where, sir?" demanded Sir Peter.

"At Saint Ruth's, and in its neighborhood," John answered evenly. "We have worked there together."

"How long has this been going on?" Sir Peter had regained control of himself, but his fine face was distorted. Phyllis's hands were clenched tightly in her lap. She was very pale.

"If you mean how long have we been meeting each other there, and going about in the neighborhood together----"

"I think my meaning is clear, sir."

"About four months, then. It seems a short time, but we have seen each other almost every day."

"Landless, you are a sneak," said Sir Peter quietly. "You are a d.a.m.ned sneak."

John's face flamed; he started as if struck by a whip.

"Oh, no! Uncle Peter!" cried Phyllis. "Oh, no, no! Uncle Peter."

"Leave the house, Landless."

"But Mr. Landless is my guest!" She was as pale as death, now, and breathing hurriedly; her eyes were unnaturally large, and there was a stricken look in them.

"You heard what I said, Landless." The voice was unyielding.

John moved toward the door, chin up and shoulders squared. Phyllis intercepted him swiftly, and put both hands appealingly on his arm.

"Wait a moment, John. Oh, wait a moment for my sake, John," she pleaded.

"I can't," said John. "You know that I can't."

"Ah, but you must, John, for my sake; for my sake."

She linked her hands closely about his arm and turned to her uncle.

John, facing the door, moved slowly toward it, trying gently to disengage her hands, and forcing her to walk a step or two backward as she spoke.

"I must ask you to apologize to Mr. Landless, Uncle Peter," she said earnestly. "Whatever fault there has been, if there has been any, is mine. I have often spoken to you of meeting Mr.--of meeting John at Saint Ruth's. But I see now you didn't realize how often I went there, nor that I was with him so many of the times. I should have told you, Uncle Peter; the fault was mine, not John's. I am sorry, Uncle Peter, and I ask you to forgive me. But you must apologize to John." She looked at the stern face entreatingly; the doorway was very near.

"Oh, John," she implored, "I beg you to wait a moment; just a tiny second. Uncle Peter will tell you he didn't understand."

John stopped, and stood facing the doorway his back turned to Sir Peter.

They waited in silence; the slow ticking of the tall clock could be heard.

"I love him dearly, Uncle Peter," whispered Phyllis.

Ah! Valentine Germain; pretty, dead Valentine Germain; your daughter is wonderfully like you now.

"I ask you to wait, Landless," said Sir Peter.

His next words were calmly spoken; deliberate pa.s.sionless; the more awful for that.

"I have known one reckless marriage, Landless, and one is enough for a lifetime. There is a taint in all of this of which you know nothing.

This unhappy child's father was a fool. Her mother was a shallow, soulless, shameless creature--and worse. Her----"

"It is a lie!" cried Phyllis. "A cruel, cruel lie! G.o.d pity you, Uncle Peter, and forgive you. I am sorry for you; I am sorry for you. You have nursed those bitter, black thoughts in your heart for so many years that they have poisoned your life. But you have soiled my mother's memory for the last time in my presence. Never, never again!" A great sob choked her. "I am going to leave you, Uncle Peter. I am grateful to you for many years of generous, loving kindness. Indeed, I do not forget them; indeed, I am grateful. But I cannot stay here any longer. I should be miserable--wretched if I stayed. I cannot breathe in this room--in this house." She rocked her body as if in pain. She would have said more, but----

"Go, then!" said Sir Peter, through set teeth.

Phyllis ran from the room and out of the house, bareheaded; John s.n.a.t.c.hed his hat and stick in the hall and overtook her as she fled through the iron grille. They ran together a short distance. Then Phyllis slackened the pace to a rapid walk. She was breathless, her hands pressed to her heart; a maid distraught. Pitiful, inarticulate little cries escaped her from time to time. John walked beside her, silently. They pa.s.sed through the gates of the park, and she walked more slowly. Slowly, and still more slowly they wandered, aimlessly, under the leafless trees. She turned to him at last, her lips blue with the cold.

"You must take care of me now, John. I have no one else," she said quietly.

V

Was it Dr. Johnson who remarked that one great charm of London is that you may walk in a crowded street, eating a twopenny bun, without attracting a second glance? Or was it Benjamin Franklin? Not that it matters.

On a wintry morning, in a public conveyance a hatless and coatless young woman of unusual beauty, and a very self-conscious young man, sitting beside her, were not annoyed by more than a curious stare or two.

John had suggested a cab.

"We must economize from the very beginning," said Phyllis, with a wan smile.

She blushed deliciously when John handed her money, and she hurried into a shop. Such a simple, brown hat she found, a little shopworn; the long, warm coat she bought matched perfectly. Standing at the street corner, waiting for her, John counted the money in his pockets; enough for luncheon, fares, and even contingencies, he was glad to find. But he thought with satisfaction of the full quarter's income at his lodgings.

When she rejoined him, John looked her over critically.

"I suppose that is a terribly cheap coat," he said, trying to remember other coats he had seen on her pretty figure.

"It is a lovely coat. I like it very much," replied Phyllis, stroking the flaps of the pockets.