Allan, watching them, out of earshot, from the living-room where he had been wheeled, saw Phyllis smiling warmly up at his friend, lingering in talk with him, giving him both hands in farewell; and he saw, too, Hewitt's rapt interest and long leave-taking. At last the door closed, and Phyllis came back to him, flushed and animated. He realized, watching her return with that swift lightness of foot her long years of work had lent her, how young and strong and lovely she was, with the rose-color in her cheeks and the light from above making her hair glitter. And suddenly her slim young strength and her bright vitality seemed to mock him, instead of being a comfort and support as heretofore. A young, beautiful, kind girl like that--it was natural she should like Hewitt. And it was going to come natural to Hewitt to like Phyllis. He could see that plainly enough. "Tired, Allan Harrington?" she asked brightly, coming over to him and dropping a light hand on his chair, in a caressing little way she had dared lately.... Kindness! Yes, she was the incarnation of kindness. Doubtless she had spoken to and touched those little ragamuffins she had told him of just so. He had got into a habit of feeling that Phyllis belonged to him absolutely. He had forgotten--what was it she had said to him that afternoon, half in fun--but oh, doubtless half in earnest!--about marrying him for a rose-garden? She had done just that. She had never made any secret of it--why, how could she, marrying him before she had spoken a half-dozen words to him? But how wonderful she had been to him since--sometimes almost as if she cared for him.... He moved ungraciously. "Don't _touch_ me, Phyllis!" he said irritably. "Wallis! You can wheel me into my room." "Oh-h!" said Phyllis, behind him. The little forlorn sound hurt him, but it pleased him, too. So he could hurt her, if only by rudeness? Well, that was a satisfaction. "Shut the door," he ordered Wallis swiftly. Phyllis, her hands at her throat, stood hurt and frightened in the middle of the room. It never occurred to her that Allan was jealous, or indeed that he could care enough for her to be jealous. "It was talking about Louise Frey," she said. "That, and Dr. Hewitt bringing up old times. Oh, _why_ did I ask about her? He was contented--I know he was contented! He'd gotten to like having me with him--he even wanted me. Oh, Allan, Allan!" She did not want to cry downstairs, so she ran for her own room. There she threw herself down and cried into a pillow till most of the case was wet. She was silly--she knew she was silly. She tried to think of all the things that were still hers, the garden, the watch-bracelet, the leisure, the pretty gowns--but nothing, _nothing_ seemed of any consequence beside the fact that--she had not kissed Allan good-night! It seemed the most intolerable thing that had ever happened to her. XIV