Part 21

At nine that evening Adair and Phyllis were both waiting for their visitors. True to her promise to Rolls Reece the latter had dressed herself with unusual care; and Adair, who was allowed to see but not touch, swore she had never looked more ravishing. Her fresh young womanhood entranced him; she was so slender, so graceful, so girlish, and the red rose in her hair was not more exquisite. What a beauty she was! How altogether perfect from the top of her dark head to her trim little feet!—And the saucy mouth that was always ready to part on the dazzling teeth; the low, sweet, eager voice; the bubbling, caressing laugh—after four weeks of loneliness, of dismal, dreary separation, it was as though he had never really appreciated them before; and it was intolerable to be stuck to a chair and forbidden to move when everything in him bade him seize her in his arms, and assert his master's right.

Worst still, Rolls Reece and the Pest Person were late. The minutes ticked away—five past, ten past, a quarter past, twenty past—and yet there was neither dramatist nor Pest.—Ah, there they were at last! Phyllis ran to admit them, fumbling at the latch of the door in her excitement. She opened it on the dimly-lighted landing, and held out both hands in welcome to Rolls Reece, who stood before her. His friend was hidden in the shadow, but as she glanced towards him recognition suddenly pierced her heart. It was her father!

All he said was her name, and that so humbly, and with an intonation so affecting that she flung her arms about him in a paroxysm of tenderness, unmindful of everything save the love that suddenly flooded her whole being. Misunderstanding, self-justification, the rights or wrongs of their unhappy estrangement—all were forgotten, all were swept away. Clinging to him she guided him along the passageway and into the sitting-room, where Adair, bewildered and astonished, was waiting to receive them. Even in the throes of that tumultuous moment Phyllis, trying to see with her father's eyes, took in Adair with a welling pride. Never had he appeared to her more manly, more distinguished or noble; and when she said: "My husband, Daddy," it was with a little air that told of her own content with the man of her choice.

"I am here in the character of a repentant father, with ashes on his head," said Mr. Ladd; and going up to Adair, held out his hand. "Will you not forgive me?" he asked, "and may we not be friends?"

Rolls Reece had looked forward to being present at this evening of reconciliation; of being patted on the back for the big part he had taken in it; of drinking his own champagne amid the ensuing festivity and joy. But as he saw the two men's hands meet and grasp; as he saw Phyllis press between them, her eyes suffusing, and sobs choking her utterance, he realized that he was gazing at a scene too sacred for him to share. He silently effaced himself, shut the door without noise, and tiptoed down the stairs.

"It's a good world," he murmured to himself, "yes, a damned good world; and in spite of what people say, things often work out right."

THE END