The David within was awakening and developing a highly sensitized nature,
which caught Phoebe's note of disapproval, divined its reason and winced
under the humiliation of its distrust. The old David would have laughed,
chaffed her and gone his way rejoicing--the new David suffered, for a
deeply-loved woman can inflict a wound on the inner man that throbs to
the depths.

Across the hall Phoebe found the major at his table and, as usual, buried
in his books. He was reading one and holding another open in his hand
while his pen balanced itself over a page for a note. Phoebe hesitated on
the threshold, loath to disturb his feast. But before she could retreat
he glanced up and his smile flashed a welcome and an invitation to her,
while his books fell together as he rose and held out his hands.

"My dear," he said, "I was just reading what Bob Browning says about a
'pearl and a girl'--and thinking of you when up I look to behold you."

"Thank you, and good morning, Major," returned Phoebe as a slow smile
spread over her grave face. "I won't disturb you, for I've only a moment!
This hunt to-night--it--it troubles me. Has David forgotten that he is to
make a speech on the cutting of the conduit over in the sixteenth ward at
half-past seven o'clock? It is one of his most important appointments
and--"

"Phoebe," answered the major as he balanced his pen on one long lean
finger, "do you suppose that women will ever learn that men could
dispense with them entirely after their second year--if it wasn't for the
loneliness? I see David Kildare failed to make a sufficiently full
apron-string report to you this morning of his intentions for the day."