"Your father was her first love-affair," she resumed. "She was wrapped
up in her acting till she met him. Her mother and father were both on
the stage. Did you know that? Yes, my deary dear, she told me a
costume-trunk was her cradle, and a dressing-room the only nursery that
ever she knew. She hated to give it all up, but she did; your mother
loved your father beyond all that ever I saw or heard of, and he
worshiped the ground she walked on. Strong words, my dear, but true as
true."
It was midnight before they knew it. The dark circles under her
darling's eyes gave Mrs. Farquharson occasion for concern. Genevieve had
visited the bedroom with clean linen in her arms.
"I will take a short walk," whispered John to Phyllis.
Poor Phyllis. She needed her old nurse; the excitement and fatigue had
exhausted her completely.
Standing in the square, looking upward at the stars, a white-faced poet,
his thoughts unutterable, at last saw the lights in her windows grow
dim and disappear.
On the stairs he met Mrs. Farquharson. Her voice was anxious as she bade
him good night.
From the little sitting-room John could see into the bedroom. The light
shone on the face of Phyllis asleep.
He sat watching the dying fire for a long while. Finally he rose, slowly
wound up his watch, turned out the gas, and lay down on the sofa. He
soon slumbered peacefully.
In the gray dawn Phyllis awakened. Recollections slowly crowded upon her
consciousness. She rose and stood by the window, looking out on the
quiet square, and at the houses, opposite, emerging from obscurity with
the growing light. She stepped to the door and peeped into the other
room. John lay on the sofa, sleeping soundly, one arm flung boyishly
over his head.
The rooms were very cold. She took the coverlet from her bed and spread
it over him.
He stirred a little. "Thanks, old chap," he murmured sleepily.
Phyllis tiptoed back to bed.