Suddenly Philippa, who had been listening,
gave a little exclamation of relief.
"I hear his voice!" she exclaimed. "Thank goodness!"
Helen's relief was almost as great as her companion's. A moment
later Mills ushered in their guest. He was still wearing his
bandage, but his colour had returned. He seemed, in fact, almost
gay.
"Nothing has happened, then?" Philippa demanded anxiously, as soon
as the door was closed.
"Nothing at all," he assured them. "Our friend Griffiths is terribly
afraid of making a mistake."
"So afraid that he wouldn't come and dine. Never mind, you'll have
to take care of us both," she added, as Mills announced dinner.
"I'll do my best," he promised, offering his arm.
If the sword of Damocles were indeed suspended over their heads, it
seemed only to heighten the merriment of their little repast.
Philippa had ordered champagne, and the warmth of the pleasant dining
room, the many appurtenances of luxury by which they were surrounded,
the glow of the wine, and the perfume of the hothouse flowers upon
the table, seemed in delicious contrast to the fury of the storm
outside. They all three appeared completely successful in a strenuous
effort to dismiss all disconcerting subjects from their minds.
Lessingham talked chiefly of the East. He had travelled in Russia,
Persia, Afghanistan, and India, and he had the unusual but striking
gift of painting little word pictures of some of the scenes of his
wanderings.
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