It is your life, Philippa, not mine."
"Since you are so philosophical," Philippa observed, "let me ask
you--should you do what I am going to do, if you were in my place?"
"I should not," was the firm reply.
Philippa laughed heartily.
"Oh, I know what you are going to say!" Helen continued quickly.
"You'll tell me, won't you, that I am not temperamental. I think
in your heart you rather despise my absolute fidelity to Richard.
You would call it cowlike, or something of that sort. There is a
difference between us, Philippa, and that is why I am afraid to
argue with you."
"What should you do," Philippa demanded, "if Richard failed you in
some great thing?"
"I might suffer," Helen confessed, "but my love would be there all
the same. Perhaps for that reason I should suffer the more, but I
should never be able to see with those who judged him hardly."
"You think, then," Philippa persisted, "that I ought still to remain
Henry's loving and affectionate wife, ready to take my place amongst
the pastimes of his life--when he feels inclined, for instance, to
wander from his dark lady-love to something petite and of my
complexion, or when he settles down at home for a few days after a
fortnight's sport on the sea and expects me to tell him the war news?"
"I don't think that I should do that," Helen admitted quietly, "but
I am quite certain that I shouldn't run away with another man.
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