“I’m glad the more obvious literary parallel hasn’t occurred to you,” said Philippa severely. “More obvious even than that? Oh, I know! David Cop----” “If you say it, I shall throw this book at you. She is a dear little thing, Usk, and you don’t appreciate her a bit.” “I know she’s a dear little thing, and I’m awfully fond of her. And no doubt it’s most excellent for her to be firmly convinced that I know everything. Plenty of men would give their ears for their wives to think so. But it’s horribly embarrassing for me when she looks up at me just like a child and asks some perfectly impossible question.” “No, not like a child. A child is never satisfied if you can’t answer it. ‘Don’t you know? Why don’t you know? Does anybody know? Then _why_ don’t you know?’ You used to go on like that yourself; I can remember it quite well. But when Helene finds she has asked a question you can’t answer, she’s dreadfully afflicted, and looks round to make sure that Fred and I haven’t noticed.” “Poor little girl! But really, Phil, we get on perfectly well, and she’s continually assuring me that she was never so happy in her life.” “Yes; but I am in constant terror that her eyes will be opened. I always try to draw her in when you and I are talking. Don’t you see how it is? You consult me about what you are going to do, but you tell her about it when it’s all settled. And she has a right to be consulted.” “Oh, nonsense! I don’t want her to worry herself. She’s a dear little comrade as it is, and I believe I’d rather she remained a child, after all. She--she’s so awfully contented and satisfied now, you know.” Philippa nodded her head sagely. “That’s just it. You think that as a woman she would demand more from you. But she is a woman in the way she loves you, Usk. I can see that.” “My dear Phil, you are most penetrating and far-sighted, I don’t doubt, but after all, I’m Helene’s husband, and I may be allowed to know her better than you do. Look at her now, tormenting old Fred with a catechism on vine-growing. She’s only a child, vividly interested in everything, and devoted to me just because I’ve been kind to her--as if I could help it. I suppose she’ll grow up some day, but I’m not going to turn her into a little old woman before the time.” Philippa rose and looked over the carved wooden railing that safeguarded the balcony, for the house stood on a precipitous hillside. Up the winding path her husband and Helene were slowly climbing, with a pleasant murmur of voices, after visiting the vineyard which occupied a more gradual slope below. Far in the distance could be seen the blue of the Mediterranean, with a wilderness of hills between, some bare and rugged, others cultivated almost to the summit. The native house in which the Mansfields had taken refuge from the heat and possible fever of the Palestinian lowlands where their work lay was situated on the western slope of Mount Lebanon.