Duncombe and
Phyllis came last, and their hands met for an instant behind the burly
commissionaire.
"Until to-morrow!"
"Until to-morrow," she echoed softly, as he handed her into the electric
_coupe_.
Andrew and he drove down the hill together. Duncombe was a little ill at
ease.
"There is one thing, Andrew," he said, "which I should like to say to
you. I want you to remember the night in your garden, when you asked me
to come to Paris for you."
"Yes?"
"I warned you, didn't I? I knew that it would come, and it has!"
Andrew smiled in gentle scorn.
"My dear Duncombe," he said, "why do you think it necessary to tell me a
thing so glaringly apparent? I have nothing to blame you for. It was a
foolish dream of mine, which I shall easily outlive. For, George, this
has been a great day for me. I believe that my time for dreams has gone
by."
Duncombe turned towards him with interest.
"What do you mean, Andrew?"
"I have been to see Foudroye, the great oculist. He has examined my eyes
carefully, and he assures me positively that my eyesight is completely
sound. In two months' time I shall see as well as any one!"
Duncombe's voice shook with emotion.
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