f would have
betrayed a southern darky in the kitchen if nothing else had. It was the
first meal Allan had eaten with any one for years, and he found it so
interesting as to be almost exciting. Wallis took the plates invisibly
away when they were done, and they continued to stay in their
half-circle about the fire and talk it all over. Phyllis, tired to death
still, had slid to her favorite floor-seat, curled on cushions and
leaning against the couch-side. Allan could have touched her hair with
his hand. She thought of this, curled there, but she was too tired to
move. It was exciting to be near him, somehow, tired as she was.

Most of the short evening was spent celebrating the fact that Allan had
thrown something at Wallis, who was recalled to tell the story three
times in detail. Then there was the house to discuss, its good and bad
points, its nearnesses and farnesses.

"Let me tell you, Allan," said Mrs. De Guenther warmly at this point,
from her seat at the foot of the couch, "this wife of yours is a wonder.
Not many girls could have had a house in this condition two weeks after
it was bought."

Allan looked down at the heap of shining hair below him, all he could
see of Phyllis.

"Yes," he said consideringly. "She certainly is."

At a certain slowness in his tone, Phyllis sprang up. "You must be tired
to _death_!" she said. "It must be nearly ten. Do you feel worn out?"

Before he could say anything, Mrs. De Guenther had also risen, and was
sweeping away her husband.

"Of course he is," she said decisively. "What have we all been thinking
of? And we must go to bed, too, Albert, if you insist on taking that
early train in the morning, and I insist on going with you. Good-night,
children."

Wallis had appeared by this time, and was wheeling Allan from the room
before he had a chance to say much of anything but good-night. The De
Guenthers talked a little longer to Phyllis, and were gone also. Phyllis
flung herself full-length on the rugs and pillows before the fire, too
tired to move further.

Well, she had everything that she had wished for on that wet February
day in the library. Money, leisure to be pretty, a husband whom she
"didn't have to associate with much," rest, if she ever gave herself
leave to take it, and the rose-garden. She had her wishes, as uncannily
fulfilled as if she had been ordering her fate from a department store,
and had money to pay for it.... And back there in the city it was