“The poor man doesn't get much chance,” Helen retorted, watching the blue smoke from her cigarette and leaning back with an air of content. “Whatever do you and he find to talk about, Philippa?” “Literature--English and German,” Philippa murmured demurely. “Mr. Lessingham is remarkably well read, and he knows more about our English poets than any man I have met for years.” “I forgot that you enjoyed that sort of thing.” “Once more, don't be a cat,” Philippa enjoined. “If you want me to confess it, I will own up at once. You know what a simple little thing I am. I admire Mr. Lessingham exceedingly, and I find him a most interesting companion.” “You mean,” her friend observed drily “the Baron Maderstrom.” Philippa looked around and frowned. “You are most indiscreet, Helen,” she declared. “I have learnt something of the science of espionage lately, and I can assure you that all spoken or written words are dangerous. There is a thoroughly British squirrel in that tree overhead, and I am sure he heard.” “I suppose the sunshine has got into your head,” Helen groaned. “If you mean that I am finding it a relief to talk nonsense, you are right,” Philippa assented. “As a matter of fact, I am feeling most depressed. Henry telephoned from somewhere or other before breakfast this morning, to say that he should probably be home to-night or to-morrow. They must have landed somewhere down the coast.” “You are a most undutiful wife,” Helen pronounced severely. “I am sure Henry is a delightful person, even if he is a little irresponsible, and it is almost pathetic to remember how much you were in love with him, a year or two ago.” Some of the lightness vanished from Philippa's face. “That was before the war,” she sighed. “I still think Henry is a dear, though I don't altogether understand him,” Helen said thoughtfully. “No doubt,” Philippa assented, “but you'd find the not understanding him a little more galling, if you were his wife. You see, I didn't know that I was marrying a sort of sporting Mr. Skimpole.” “I wonder,” Helen reflected, “how Henry and Mr. Lessingham will get on when they see more of one another.” “I really don't care,” Philippa observed indifferently. “I used to notice sometimes--that was soon after you were married,” Helen continued, “that Henry was just a little inclined to be jealous.” Philippa withdrew her eyes from the sea. There was a queer little smile upon her lips. “Well, if he still is,” she said, “I'll give him something to be jealous about.” “Poor Mr. Lessingham!” Helen murmured. Philippa's eyebrows were raised. “Poor Mr. Lessingham?” she repeated. “I don't think you'll find that he'll be in the least sorry for himself.” “He may be in earnest,” Helen reminded her friend. “You can be horribly attractive when you like, you know, Philippa.” Philippa smiled sweetly.