"A beggar!" He caught himself
with a laugh, and to cover his sudden emotion turned to lay a
fresh piece of birch on the fire. "We don't have beggars up here."
The door opened behind them and Brokaw entered. Philip's face was
red when he greeted him. For half an hour after that he cursed
himself for not being as clever as Gregson. He knew that there was
a change in Eileen Brokaw, a change which nature had not worked
alone, as she wished him to believe. Then, and at supper, he tried
to fathom her. At times he detected the metallic ring of what was
unreal and make-believe in what she said; at other times she
seemed stirred by emotions which added immeasurably to the
sweetness and truthfulness of her voice. She was nervous. He found
her eyes frequently seeking her father's face, and more than once
they were filled with a mysterious questioning, as if within
Brokaw's brain there lurked hidden things which were new to her,
and which she was struggling to understand. She no longer held the
old fascination for Philip, and yet he conceded that she was more
beautiful than ever. Until to-night he had never seen the shadow
of sadness in her eyes; he had never seen them darken as they
darkened now, when she listened with almost feverish interest to
the words which passed between himself and Brokaw.
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