He hardly knew whether he was glad or
sorry, and the actions and speech of one hour frequently contradicted
those of the next.
Still there followed many days of sunshine and happy leisure, of
boating and fishing, of riding upon the long stretch of hard sands,
of sweet, silent games of chess in shady corners, of happy communion
in song and story, and of conscious conversations wherein so few words
meant so much. And perhaps the lovers in their personal joy grew a
little selfish, for; one night the Bishop said to Phyllis, "Come and
see me in the morning, daughter, I have something to say to you."
He was sitting waiting for her under an enormous fig-tree, a tree so
large that the space it shadowed made a pretty parlor, with roof and
walls of foliage so dense that not even a tropical shower could
penetrate them. He sat in a large wicker-chair, and on the rustic table
beside him was a cup of coffee, a couple of flaky biscuits, and a plate
of great purple figs, just gathered from the branches above him. When
Phyllis came, he pulled a rocking-chair to his side, and touched a
little hand-bell. "You shall have some coffee with me, and some bread
and fruit; eating lubricates talking, dear, and I want to talk to you--
very seriously."
"About John, father?"
"Yes, about John. You know your own mind, Phyllis Fontaine? You are
not playing with a good man's heart?"
"I told you two years ago, father, that I loved John.
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