"You have had all the opportunities which
any man should need, of explaining certain matters to me. My
curiosity in them has ended; also my interest--in you. You say
you are going to London. Very well. Pray do not hurry home on
my account."
Sir Henry, as he turned to leave the room, made the common mistake
of a man arguing with a woman--he attempted to have the last word.
"Perhaps I am better out of the way, eh?"
"Perhaps so," Philippa assented sweetly.
CHAPTER XXVI
Philippa, late that afternoon, found what she sought--solitude.
She had walked along the sands until Dreymarsh lay out of sight on
the other side of a spur of the cliffs. Before her stretched a
long and level plain, a fringe of sand, and a belt of shingly
beach. There was not a sign of any human being in sight, and of
buildings only a quaint tower on the far horizon.
She found a dry place on the pebbles, removed her hat and sat down,
her hands clasped around her knees, her eyes turned seaward. She
had come out here to think, but it was odd how fugitive and
transient her thoughts became. Her husband was always there in the
background, but in those moments it was Lessingham who was the
predominant figure. She remembered his earnestness, his tender
solicitude for her, the courage which, when necessity demanded,
had flamed up in him, a born and natural quality.
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