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2017年6月15日 (木)

warm color mounted her cheeks

In spite of himself Phil Gallatin found himself looking at Jane and thinking of Arcadia. It was three weeks now since that much to be remembered and regretted interview at the Loring house had taken place. The glance he stole at Jane assured him that if he had ever had a hope of reconciliation, the chances for it were now more remote than ever. She wore a huge hat which screened her effectually, and the glimpses he had of her face showed it dimpling in smiles for Coleman Van Duyn or Bibby Worthington, who sat on either side of her. When their eyes had first met he had thought her pale, but as the moments passed a . It seemed to Gallatin that never before within his memory had she ever appeared so care-free. She was youth untrammeled, a sister to Euphrosyne, the spirit of joy. It seemed as if she realized that the grim specter which had stolen into her life for a[282] while had been exorcised away, and that she had already forgotten it in the beckoning of the jocund hours. Phil Gallatin had come into her life and gone, leaving no trace in her mind or in her heart.

After this their eyes met but once. He was looking at her, thinking of these things, oblivious of what John Kenyon was saying, unaware of the intentness of his gaze, which at last compelled her to look in his direction. It was a startled glance that she gave him, wide-eyed, almost fearful, as though he had challenged her to this silent combat. Then her lids lowered insolently, her chin lifted and she turned aside.

Their coffee had been served. Phil gulped his down hastily. “Come, Uncle John,” he said hoarsely. “Let’s get out of this, will you?”

John Kenyon paid the check and they rose. Unfortunately the only path to the door lay by Mr. Van Duyn’s table, and as Gallatin passed, nodding to his acquaintances, Mrs. Pennington got up and stood in front of him.

“Oh, Phil!” she whispered. “Why wouldn’t you come to see me? I’ve had so much to talk to you about.”

“I—I’ve been very busy, Nellie. I haven’t been anywhere.”

“My house isn’t ‘anywhere.’ I want to talk to you—you know what I mean.”

“It won’t do any good, Nellie,” he muttered. “There isn’t anything more to be said.”

“Perhaps not—but I want to say it just the same. I want you to promise——”


“I can’t,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t ask me to come and talk to you—about that.”

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