"You wouldn't know how good he was," Phyllis went on musingly, "unless you'd sat next him in a tunnel. The other day he had his waist squeezed and he simply sat still and did nothing. And then when the tunnel ended, it was Jock after all, not me. His face was-- Oh! ah! ha! ha! Ah! ha!" She threw back her head, displaying all her white, round throat. Then edging near, she whispered:
"He likes to pretend, of course, that he's fearfully lively. He's promised to take mother and me to the theatre and supper afterwards. Won't it be scrummy! Only, I haven't anything to go in."
Old Heythorp said: "What do you want? Irish poplin?"
Her mouth opened wide: "Oh! Guardy! Soft white satin!"
"How many yards'll go round you?"
"I should think about twelve. We could make it ourselves. You are a chook!"
A scent of hair, like hay, enveloped him, her lips bobbed against his nose,--and there came a feeling in his heart as when he rolled the first sip of a special wine against his palate. This little house was a rumty-too affair, her mother was a humbug, the boy a cheeky young rascal, but there was a warmth here he never felt in that big house which had been his wife's and was now his holy daughter's. And once more he rejoiced at his day's work, and the success of his breach of trust, which put some little ground beneath these young feet, in a hard and unscrupulous world. Phyllis whispered in his ear:
"Guardy, do look; he will stare at me like that. Isn't it awful-- like a boiled rabbit?"