"I really think I should change at once, if I were you," she
suggested.
"Presently. I had a sort of foolish idea that I'd like to have a
word or two with you first. I've been away for nearly a fortnight,
haven't I?"
"You have," Philippa assented. "Perhaps that is the reason why
I feel that I haven't very much to say to you."
"That sounds just a trifle hard," he said slowly.
"I am hard sometimes," Philippa confessed. "You know that quite
well. There are times when I just feel as though I had no heart
at all, nor any sympathy; when every sensation I might have had
seems shrivelled up inside me."
"Is that how you are feeling at the present time towards me,
Philippa?" he asked.
Her needles flashed through the wool for a moment in silence.
"You had every warning," she told him. "I tried to make you
understand exactly how your behaviour disgusted me before you
went away."
"Yes, I remember," he admitted. "I'm afraid, dear, you think I
am a worthless sort of a fellow."
Philippa had apparently dropped a stitch. She bent lower still over
her knitting. There was a distinct frown upon her forehead, her
mouth was unrecognisable.
"Your friend Lessingham is here still, I understand?" her husband
remarked presently.
"Yes," Philippa assented, "he is dining to-night. You will probably
see him in a few minutes.
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