"You mean to say that he is still not doing anything?"

"Nothing whatever."

"But what excuse does he give--or rather I should say reason?" Richard persisted.

"He says that he is too old for a ship, and he won't work in an office,"

Philippa replied. "That is what he says. His point of view is so impossible that I can not even discuss it with him."

"It's the rummest go I ever came across," Richard remarked reminiscently. "I should have said that old Henry would have been up and at 'em at the Admiralty before the first gun was fired."

"On the contrary," Philippa rejoined, "he took advantage of the war to hire a Scotch moor at half-price, about a week after hostilities had commenced."

"It's a rum go," Richard repeated. "I can't fancy Henry as a skulker.

Forgive me, Philippa," he added.

"You are entirely forgiven," she a.s.sured him drily.

"He comes of such a fine fighting stock," Richard mused. "I suppose his health is all right?"

"His health," Philippa declared, "is marvellous. I should think he is one of the strongest men I know."

Her brother patted her hand.

"You've been making rather a trouble of it, old girl," he said affectionately. "It's no good doing that, you know. You wait and let me have a talk with Henry."

"I think," she replied, "that nearly everything possible has already been said to him."

"Perhaps you've put his back up a bit," Richard suggested, "and he may really be on the lookout for something all the time."

"It has been a long search!" Philippa retorted, with quiet sarcasm. "Let us talk about something else."

They gossiped for a time over acquaintances and relations, made their plans for the week--Richard must report at the War Office at once.

Philippa grew more and more silent as the meal drew to a close. It was at Helen's initiative that they left Richard alone for a moment over his port. She kept her arm through her friend's as they crossed the hall into the drawing-room, and closed the door behind them. Philippa stood upon the hearth rug. Already her mouth had come together in a straight line. Her eyes met Helen's defiantly.

"I know exactly what you are going to say, Helen," she began, "and I warn you that it will be of no use."

Helen drew up a small chair and seated herself before the fire.

"Are you going away with Mr. Lessingham, Philippa?" she asked.

"I am," was the calm response. "I made up my mind this afternoon. We are leaving to-night."

Helen stretched out one foot to the blaze.

"Motoring?" she enquired.

"Naturally," Philippa replied. "You know there are no trains leaving here to-night."

"You'll have a cold ride," Helen remarked. "I should take your heavy fur coat."

Philippa stared at her companion.

"You don't seem much upset, Helen!"

"I think," Helen declared, looking up, "that nothing that has ever happened to me in my life has made me more unhappy, but I can see that you have reasoned it all out, and there is not a single argument I could use which you haven't already discounted. It is your life, Philippa, not mine."

"Since you are so philosophical," Philippa observed, "let me ask you--should you do what I am going to do, if you were in my place?"

"I should not," was the firm reply.

Philippa laughed heartily.

"Oh, I know what you are going to say!" Helen continued quickly. "You'll tell me, won't you, that I am not temperamental. I think in your heart you rather despise my absolute fidelity to Richard. You would call it cowlike, or something of that sort. There is a difference between us, Philippa, and that is why I am afraid to argue with you."

"What should you do," Philippa demanded, "if Richard failed you in some great thing?"

"I might suffer," Helen confessed, "but my love would be there all the same. Perhaps for that reason I should suffer the more, but I should never be able to see with those who judged him hardly."

"You think, then," Philippa persisted, "that I ought still to remain Henry's loving and affectionate wife, ready to take my place amongst the pastimes of his life--when he feels inclined, for instance, to wander from his dark lady-love to something pet.i.te and of my complexion, or when he settles down at home for a few days after a fortnight's sport on the sea and expects me to tell him the war news?"

"I don't think that I should do that," Helen admitted quietly, "but I am quite certain that I shouldn't run away with another man."

"Why not?"

"Because I should be punishing myself too much."

Philippa's eyes suddenly flashed.

"Helen," she said, "you are not such a fool as you try to make me think.

Can't you see what is really at the back of it all in my mind? Can't you realise that, whatever the punishment it may bring, it will punish Henry more?"

"I see," Helen observed. "You are running away with Mr. Lessingham to annoy Henry?"

"Oh, he'll be more than annoyed!" Philippa laughed sardonically. "He has terrible ideas about the sanct.i.ty of things that belong to him. He'll be remarkably sheepish for some time to come. He may even feel a few little stabs. When I have time, I am going to write him a letter which he can keep for the rest of his life. It won't please him!"

"Where are you--and Mr. Lessingham going to live?" Helen enquired.

"In America, to start with. I've always longed to go to the States."

"What shall you do," Helen continued, "if you don't get out of the country safely?"

"Mr. Lessingham seems quite sure that we shall," Philippa replied, "and he seems a person of many expedients. Of course, if we didn't, I should go back to Cheshire. I should have gone back there, anyway, before now, if Mr. Lessingham hadn't come."

"Well, it all seems very simple," Helen admitted. "I think Mr.

Lessingham is a perfectly delightful person, and I shouldn't wonder if you didn't now and then almost imagine that you were happy."

"You seem to be taking my going very coolly," Philippa remarked.