He turned to speak to her in the half light and found her curled up in
the corner with her soft cheek resting against the cushions. Her attitude
was one of utter weariness, but she smiled without opening her eyes as
she nestled closer against the rough leather.
"Tired, peach-bud?" he asked softly. One of the gifts of the high gods to
David Kildare was a voice with a timbre suitable to the utmost
tenderness, when the occasion required.
"Yes," answered Phoebe drowsily, "but so happy! It was all lovely,
David." Her pink-palmed hand lay relaxed on her knee. David lifted it
cautiously in both his strong warm ones and bent over it, his heart
ahammer with trepidation. For as a general thing neither the environment
nor his mood had much influence in the softening way on Phoebe's cool
aloofness, but this once some sympathetic chord must have vibrated in her
heart for she clasped her fingers around his and received the caress on
their pink tips with opening eyes that smiled with a hint of tenderness.
"David," she said with a low laugh, "I'm too tired to be stern with you
tonight, but I'll hold you responsible to-morrow--for everything. Here we
are; do see if that red-headed devil is sitting on the door-step and tell
him that there is--no--more copy--if I _am_ a half-column short. And,
David," she drew their clasped hands nearer and laid her free one over
both his as the car drew up to the curb, "you--are--a--dear! Here's my
key in my muff. To-morrow at five? I don't know--you will have to phone
me. Good night, and thank you--dear. Yes--good night again!"