She looked around for the riders, but she did not see them. Evidently
they were having dinner taken over.
* * * * *
Phyllis Harrington, rather regretfully, hooked a dog-chain to the
porch railing of the cottage she and her husband had just hired. It
was an entirely unnecessary part of the family bull-terrier's
wardrobe, and she intended to use it as an instrument of justice. So
she called her small son. She believed in making the punishment fit
the crime, and Philip had flagrantly run away, quite against orders,
the evening before.
He appeared at her summons, smiling angelically. Philip Harrington
had not the smallest visible excuse for being the son of his
parents, for his father was not particularly dark, and his mother
distinctly gold-blond. Philip threw back, it was supposed, to the
family Pirate, a semi-mythical person whom Phyllis said she'd had
some thirteen generations ago. Phyllis was a New Englander. The
Pirate must have been dark; at least Philip had tragic, enormous
brown eyes with dense lashes, a mop of straight black hair, and a
dusky skin, deeply rose-red at cheeks and lips. He also possessed
the gentle, solemn courtesy of a Spanish grandee, which the Pirate
may or may not have been. He was full of charm of manner, and
combined a spirit of fearless loving-kindness to all the world with
an inability to see why he shouldn't always have his own way; which
made him difficult to manage.
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