almost hear that poor, tired, toneless voice of his, that was yet
so deep and so perfectly accented.... She bought docilely whatever her
guide directed, and woke from a species of gentle daze at the
afternoon's end to find Mrs. De Guenther beaming with the weary rapture
of the successful shopper, and herself the proprietress of a turquoise
velvet walking-suit, a hat to match, a pale blue evening frock, a pale
green between-dress with lovely clinging lines, and a heavenly white
crepe thing with rosy ribbons and filmy shadow-laces--the negligee of
one's dreams. There were also slippers and shoes and stockings and--this
was really too bad of Mrs. De Guenther--a half-dozen set of lingerie,
straight through. Mrs. De Guenther sat and continued to beam joyously
over the array, in Phyllis's little bedroom.

"It's my present, dearie," she said calmly. "So you needn't worry about
using Angela's money. Gracious, it's been _lovely_! I haven't had such a
good time since my husband's little grand-niece came on for a week.
There's nothing like dressing a girl, after all."

And Phyllis could only kiss her. But when her guest had gone she laid
all the boxes of finery under her bed, the only place where there was
any room. She would not take any of it out, she determined, till her
summons came. But on second thought, she wore the blue velvet
street-suit on Sunday visits to Mrs. Harrington, which became--she never
knew just when or how--a regular thing. The vivid blue made her eyes
nearly sky-color, and brightened her hair very satisfactorily. She was
taking more time and trouble over her looks now--one has to live up to a
turquoise velvet hat and coat! She found herself, too, becoming very
genuinely fond of the restless, anxiously loving, passionate, unwise
child who dwelt in Mrs. Harrington's frail elderly body and had almost
worn it out. She sat, long hours of every Sunday afternoon, holding Mrs.
Harrington's thin little hot hands, and listening to her swift,
italicised monologues about Allan--what he must do, what he must not do,
how he must be looked after, how his mother had treated him, how his
wishes must be ascertained and followed.

"Though all he wants now is dark and quiet," said his mother piteously.
"I don't even go in there now to cry."

She spoke as if it were an established ritual. Had she been using her
son's sick-room, Phyllis wondered, as a regular weeping-place? She could
feel in Mrs. Harrington, even in this morta