“Can’t you ask your wife for the recipe?” she inquired, letting herself go now, with a sort of savage pleasure in her own foolishness. Robert threw up his head sharply. “I thought we’d agreed to leave my wife’s name out of our discussions.” And then, as though the words were wrung from him, “What you say hasn’t even the merit of being true,” he added. “Her work is good.” Philippa’s eyes grew even colder. “What a pity I’m deficient in the literary sense,” she remarked. “I begin to think it’s not the only sense in which you are deficient, Philippa,” he returned, with growing anger. She shrugged her shoulders. “Really? Is politeness one of them, by any chance? If so, we ought to exercise mutual forbearance.” “I was not thinking of politeness. Decency was what I meant.” She looked at him stonily. “Please explain yourself.” “You seem to take a great pleasure in this man Nevern’s society. At Lady Wilmot’s party, the evening before I went away----” “Is that why you went away?” she asked. There was a moment’s pause. “No,” said Robert, and knew he spoke the truth. She glanced at him inquiringly, but the moment’s check to the conversation sobered her. Counsels of prudence began to prevail. “Oh, Robert!” she sighed. “You don’t know how it hurts and surprises me to find this in you. When you talk so, you put yourself on a level with vulgar, chattering women like Lady Wilmot and Mrs. Carruthers, who are always discussing your matrimonial affairs.” Despite her effort at conciliation, the last remark was forced from Philippa almost despite herself. She flung the missile, scarcely knowing whether it would prove explosive, and with some curiosity awaited results. “What do they say?” demanded Robert, breathlessly. For a moment she hesitated. “Mr. Mayne’s name is always mentioned, of course,” she said at last, with a swift glance. “But what _does_ it matter, Robert?” “Damned lot of gossips!” he exclaimed, below his breath. Instantly Philippa became a prey to conflicting emotions. “My dear Robert! You are surely not jealous of both of us? Or are you, perhaps?” “Who spoke of being jealous?” demanded Robert. “You did,” she retorted. “Merely because I object to your making these very pronounced friendships?” “Aren’t you confusing me with your wife?” observed Philippa, with icy incisiveness. “Your tone is quite marital.” There was a moment’s electric silence. Then, with a sudden movement, Philippa rose from the writing-table and came impulsively towards him. “Robert, dear,” she begged, in her tenderest voice, “this is absurd. Let us continue to trust each other, and not be vulgar about our love.” She lifted her face pleadingly to his. It was an attitude which she was conscious became her wonderfully. The long curve of her throat never showed to better advantage than when her head was thrown back to look into her lover’s eyes.