"
"Who are we?"
"Mother, and myself, and Jock--he's an awful boy. You can't conceive
what an awful boy he is. He's got nearly red hair; I think he'll be just
like Guardy when he gets old. He's awful!"
Bob Pillin murmured:
"I should like to see him."
"Would you? I'll ask mother if you can. You won't want to again; he goes
off all the time like a squib." She threw back her head, and again Bob
Pillin felt a little giddy. He collected himself, and drawled:
"Are you going in to see your Guardy?"
"No. Mother's got something special to say. We've never been here
before, you see. Isn't he fun, though?"
"Fun!"
"I think he's the greatest lark; but he's awfully nice to me. Jock calls
him the last of the Stoic'uns."
A voice called from old Heythorp's den:
"Phyllis!" It had a particular ring, that voice, as if coming from
beautifully formed red lips, of which the lower one must curve the least
bit over; it had, too, a caressing vitality, and a kind of warm falsity.
The girl threw a laughing look back over her shoulder, and vanished
through the door into the room.
Bob Pillin remained with his back to the fire and his puppy round eyes
fixed on the air that her figure had last occupied.
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