"He told me."
He lazily rocked the boat, met her troubled glance with frank serenity
and said with his eyes what for the moment his laughing lips withheld.
"Come, row about a bit," he said gently. "There's a lot to tell--"
"The other candlestick?"
"That," said Philip as he helped her in, "and more."
The boat shot forth into the moonlit water.
"And your father, Philip?"
"Better," said Philip and feathered his oars conspicuously in a moment
of constraint. Then flushing slightly, he met her glance with his
usual frank directness. "Dad and I had quarreled, Diane," he said
quietly, "and he was fretting. And now, though the fundamental cause
of grievance still remains, we're better friends. Ames, the doctor,
said that helped a lot." He was silent. "A dash of Spanish," he began
thoughtfully, "a dash of Indian, and the blood of the old southern
cavaliers--it's a ripping combination for loveliness, Diane!"
Not quite so pale, Diane glanced demurely at the moon.
"Yes, I know," nodded Philip with slightly impudent assurance; "but the
moon is kind to lovers."
"Tell me," begged Diane with a bright flush, "about the second
candlestick."
Somewhat reluctantly, with the moon urging him to madness, Philip
obeyed. To Diane his words supplied the final link in the chain of
mystery.
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