When he came back, he found
Philippa sitting very upright and with a significant glitter in her
eyes.
"Look over there," she whispered, "by the palm."
He followed the direction which she indicated. A man was standing
against one of the pillars, talking to a tall, dark woman, obviously
a foreigner, wrapped in wonderful furs. There was something familiar
about his figure and the slight droop of his head.
"Why, it's Sir Henry!" Lessingham exclaimed, as the man turned around.
"My husband," Philippa faltered.
Sir Henry, if indeed it were he, seemed afflicted with a sudden
shortsightedness. He met the incredulous gaze both of Lessingham
and his wife without recognition or any sign of flinching. At that
distance it was impossible to see the tightening of his lips and
the steely flash in his blue eyes.
"The whiting seem to have brought him a long way," Philippa said,
with an unnatural little laugh.
"Shall I go and speak to him?" Lessingham asked.
"For heaven's sake, no!" she insisted. "Don't leave me. I wouldn't
have him come near me for anything in the world. It is only a few
weeks ago that I begged him to come to London with me, and he said
that he hated the place. You don't know--the woman?"
Lessingham shook his head.
"She looks like a foreigner," was all he could say.
"Take me in to lunch at once," Philippa begged, rising abruptly to
her feet.
Pages:
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149