When she saw herself confronted by a stranger, she halted in embarrassment. But as, even while she halted, her only thought had been, “Oh! if he will only ask me to forgive him!” Philip felt no embarrassment whatsoever. Outside, concealed behind a cab horse, was the erring but bitterly repentant husband; inside, her tenderest thoughts racing tumultuously toward him, was an unhappy child-wife begging to be begged to pardon. For a New York reporter, and a Harvard graduate of charm and good manners, it was too easy. “I do not know you,” said her ladyship. But even as she spoke she motioned to the butler to go away. “You must be one of his new friends.” Her tone was one of envy. “Indeed, I am his newest friend,” Philip assured her; “but I can safely say no one knows his thoughts as well as I. And they are all of you!” The china shepherdess blushed with happiness, but instantly she shook her head. “They tell me I must not believe him,” she announced. “They tell me--” “Never mind what they tell you,” commanded Philip. “Listen to ME. He loves you. Better than ever before, he loves you. All he asks is the chance to tell you so. You cannot help but believe him. Who can look at you, and not believe that he loves you! Let me,” he begged, “bring him to you.” He started from her when, remembering the somewhat violent thoughts of the youthful husband, he added hastily: “Or perhaps it would be better if you called him yourself.” “Called him!” exclaimed the lady. “He is in Paris-at the races--with her!” “If they tell you that sort of thing,” protested Philip indignantly, “you must listen to me. He is not in Paris. He is not with her. There never was a her!” He drew aside the lace curtains and pointed. “He is there--behind that ancient cab horse, praying that you will let him tell you that not only did he never do it; but, what is much more important, he will never do it again.” The lady herself now timidly drew the curtains apart, and then more boldly showed herself upon the iron balcony. Leaning over the scarlet geraniums, she beckoned with both hands. The result was instantaneous. Philip bolted for the front door, leaving it open; and, as he darted down the steps, the youthful husband, in strides resembling those of an ostrich, shot past him. Philip did not cease running until he was well out of Berkeley Square. Then, not ill-pleased with the adventure, he turned and smiled back at the house of yellow stucco. “Bless you, my children,” he murmured; “bless you!”