"Quite a remarkable change in Helen," he observed. "She was in the
depths of depression when I went away, and to-night she seems
positively cheerful."
"Helen varies a great deal," Philippa reminded him.
"Still, to-night, I must say, I should have expected to have found
her more depressed than ever," Sir Henry went on. "She hoped so
much from your trip to London, and you apparently accomplished
nothing."
"Nothing at all."
"And you have had no letters?"
"None."
"Then Helen's high spirits, I suppose, are only part of woman's
natural inconsistency.--Philippa, dear!"
"Yes?"
"I am glad to be at home. I am glad to see you sitting there. I
know you are nursing up something, some little thunderbolt to launch
at me. Won't you launch it and let's get it over?"
Philippa laid down the book which she had been reading, and turned
to face her husband. He made a little grimace.
"Don't look so severe," he begged. "You frighten me before you
begin."
"I'm sorry," she said, "but my face probably reflects my feelings.
I am hurt and grieved and disappointed in you, Henry."
"That's a good start, anyway," he groaned.
"We have been married six years," Philippa went on, "and I admit at
once that I have been very happy. Then the war came. You know
quite well, Henry, that especially at that time I was very, very
fond of you, yet it never occurred to me for a moment but that, like
every other woman, I should have to lose my husband for a time.
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