"Mr. Curtis, won't you pardon this--this
betrayal of excitement in myself? It must be unaccountable to you.
Perhaps a little later you will understand. We are imposing on you by not
confiding in you what this interest is, and I beg you to forgive me. But
there is a reason. Will you believe me? There is a reason."
Her hands rested lightly on Philip's arm. Her eyes implored him.
"I will not ask for confidences which you are not free to give," he said
gently.
He was rewarded by a soft glow of thankfulness.
"I cannot make you understand how much that means to me," she cried
tremblingly. "And you will tell us about Peter God? Father--"
She turned.
Colonel McCloud had reentered the room.
With the feeling of one who was not quite sure that he was awake, Philip
paused under a street lamp ten minutes after leaving the McCloud
apartments, and looked at his watch. It was a quarter of two o'clock. A
low whistle of surprise fell from his lips. For three hours he had been
with Colonel McCloud and his daughter. It had seemed like an hour. He
still felt the thrill of the warm, parting pressure of Josephine's hand;
he saw the gratitude in her eyes; he heard her voice, low and tremulous,
asking him to come again to-morrow evening. His brain was in a strange
whirl of excitement, and he laughed--laughed with gladness which he had
not felt before in all the days of his life.
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