How happy they could be there; the drawing-room in the Adams
style with wine-coloured curtains! He was a father any young woman could
be proud to take about. Unconsciously she gave his hand an impulsive
squeeze. They lunched at an old inn upon the moors; and the landlady,
judging from his shy, attentive ways, had begun by addressing her as
Madame.
"You grow wonderfully like your mother," he told her that evening at
dinner. "There used to be something missing. But I don't feel that,
now."
She wrote to Phillips to meet her, if possible, at Euston. There were
things she wanted to talk to him about. There was the question whether
she should go on writing for Carleton, or break with him at once. Also
one or two points that were worrying her in connection with tariff
reform. He was waiting for her on the platform. It appeared he, too,
had much to say. He wanted her advice concerning his next speech. He
had not dined and suggested supper. They could not walk about the
streets. Likely enough, it was only her imagination, but it seemed to
her that people in the restaurant had recognized him, and were whispering
to one another: he was bound to be well known.
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