gment Day."

And with all there was to see after, it was some days before she saw
Allan again, more than to speak to brightly as she crossed their common
sitting-room. He did not ask for her. She looked after his comfort
faithfully, and tried to see to it that his man Wallis was all he should
be--a task which was almost hopeless from the fact that Wallis knew much
more about his duties than she did, even with Mrs. Harrington's
painstakingly detailed notes to help her. Also his attitude to his
master was of such untiring patience and worship that it made Phyllis
feel like a rude outsider interfering between man and wife.

However, Wallis was inclined to approve of his new mistress, who was
not fussy, seemed kind, and had given his beloved Mr. Allan nearly three
hours of unbroken sleep. Allan had been a little better ever since.
Wallis had told Phyllis this. But she was inclined to think that the
betterment was caused by the counter-shock of his mother's death, which
had shaken him from his lethargy, and perhaps even given his nerves a
better balance. And she insisted that the pink paper stay on the
electric lights.

After about a week of this, Phyllis suddenly remembered that she had not
been selfish at all yet. Where was her rose-garden--the garden she had
married the wolfhound and Allan and the check-book for? Where were all
the things she had intended to get? The only item she had bought as yet
ran, on the charge account she had taken over with the rest, "1 doz.
checked dish-towels"; and Mrs. Clancy, the housekeeper's, pressing
demand was responsible for these.

"It's certainly time I was selfish," said Phyllis to the wolfhound, who
followed her round unendingly as if she had patches of sunshine in her
pocket: glorious patches, fit for a life-sized wolfhound. Perhaps he was
grateful because she had ordered him long daily walks. He wagged his
tail now as she spoke, and rubbed himself curvingly against her. He was
a rather affected dog.

So Phyllis made herself out a list in a superlatively neat library hand:

One string of blue beads.
One lot of very fluffy summer frocks with flowers on them.
One rose-garden.
One banjo and a self-teacher. (And a sound-proof room.)
One set Arabian Nights.
One set of Stevenson, all but his novels.
Ever so many Maxfield Parrish pictures full of Prussian-blue skies.
A house to put them in, with fireplaces.
A lady's size motor-car that likes me.
A