"I wouldn't if I were you," she persisted. "You know, you've tried
Philippa very high lately, and she is in an extremely emotional
state. She is all worked up about last night, and I wouldn't leave
her alone if I were you."
Sir Henry's blue eyes seemed suddenly like points of steel as he
leaned towards her.
"You think that she is in love with that fellow Lessingham?" he asked
bluntly.
"No, I don't," Helen replied, "but I think she is more furious with
you than you believe. For months you have acted--well, how shall
I say?"
"Oh, like a coward, if you like, or a fool. Go on."
"She has asked for explanations to which she is perfectly entitled,"
Helen continued, "and you have given her none. You have treated her
like something between a doll and a child. Philippa is as good and
sweet as any woman who ever lived, but hasn't it ever occurred to
you that women are rather mysterious beings? They may sometimes do,
out of a furious sense of being wrongly treated, out of a sort of
aggravated pique, what they would never do for any other reason. If
you must go, come back to-night, Henry. Come back, and if you are
obstinate, and won't tell Philippa all that she has a right to know,
tell her about that luncheon in town."
Sir Henry frowned.
"It's all very well, you know, Helen," he said, "but a woman ought
to trust her husband.
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