Marion had regained her composure, and rising she laid her hand on his arm. "All right, Bill," she interrupted quickly. "I'm coming--you are quite right--we must hope for the best. How long can you give me?" "Ten minutes." "Very well. I won't keep you waiting." She was half across the room as she spoke. "Is there anything I can do?" asked Philippa. It hardly seemed the moment to offer anything but the most practical form of sympathy to the man who stood motionless just as his wife had left him, with his eyes fixed upon the chair she had quitted. Her question recalled him to himself with a start, but he did not reply. "I am afraid there was more in the telegram than you told Marion," she said gently. "Yes," he answered huskily. "I won't tell her--yet. It said 'Come at once--very anxious.'" Then something between a sob and a groan burst from him, and he squared his shoulders. "But we must----" Then he turned and went away. The sentence wasn't finished. That obvious pitiful platitude with which most of us are only too sadly familiar--that phrase which comes most naturally to our lips when our hearts are torn and bleeding with anxiety and the very earth seems to rock beneath our feet. Often when we are tortured with enforced inaction and we do nothing--can do nothing--but hope for the best. So easy to say, but oh, how difficult to do! Ten minutes later Philippa was standing at the front door where the car was waiting. She heard Marion's voice giving some hurried instructions to her maid and turned to meet her. "You are warm enough?" she asked. "Will you have a fur coat? Take mine." "No, no," said Marion; "I have everything, thank you, dear." Then she lifted her face to Philippa and the two friends clung together for a moment in loving sympathy. Then she released herself. "Where is Bill?" she asked. "I am here," he answered from close behind her. "Are you ready? That's right." "And you, Philippa!" said Marion suddenly, "Forgive me! I--forgot. What will you do?" "I shall be perfectly all right," said Philippa. "The only thing you can do for me is not to think about me at all." She stooped to tuck the rug more closely as she spoke. Major Heathcote was already seated at the wheel. "I will telegraph," he said. "Please do," replied Philippa, and in another moment the car was speeding down the drive, a dark shadow behind the radius of light thrown by its powerful lamps which shone a streak of gold upon the moonlit gravel. Philippa watched it out of sight and then re-entered the house. "Will you return to the dining-room, miss?" inquired the butler. "No, thank you," she answered. In truth in the hurry and stress of the last few minutes the interrupted dinner seemed vague and far away.