“It is just possible,” she said, “that I may be in earnest myself. I've quarrelled pretty desperately with Henry, you know, and I'm a helpless creature without a little admiration.” Helen rose suddenly to her feet. Her eyes were fixed upon a figure approaching through the wood. “You really aren't respectable, Philippa,” she declared. “Throw away your cigarette, for heaven's sake, and sit up. Some one is coming.” Philippa only moved her head lazily. The sunlight, which came down in a thousand little zigzags through the wind-tossed trees, fell straight upon her rather pale, defiant little face, with its unexpressed evasive charm, and seemed to find a new depth of colour in the red-gold of her disordered hair. Her slim, perfect body was stretched almost at full length, one leg drawn a little up, her hands carelessly drooping towards the grass. The cigarette was still burning in the corner of her lips. “I decline,” she said, “to throw away my cigarette for any one.” “Least of all, I trust,” a familiar voice interposed, “for me.” Philippa sat upright at once, smoothed her hair and looked a little resentfully at Lessingham. He was wearing a brown tweed knickerbocker suit, and he carried a gun under his arm. “Whatever are you doing up here,” she demanded, “and do you know anything about our game laws? You can't come out into the woods here and shoot things just because you feel like it.” He disposed of his gun and seated himself between them. “That is quite all right,” he assured her. “Your neighbour, Mr. Windover, to whom these woods apparently belong, asked me to bring my gun out this morning and try and get a woodcock.” “Gracious! You don't mean that Mr. Windover is here, too?” Philippa demanded, looking around. Lessingham shook his head. “His car came for him at the other side of the wood,” he explained. “He was wanted to go on the Bench. I elected to walk home.” “And the woodcock?” she asked. “I adore woodcock.” He produced one from his pocket, took up her felt hat, which was lying amongst the bracken, and busied himself insinuating the pin feathers under the silk band. “There,” he said, handing it to her, “the first woodcock of the season. We got four, and I really only accepted one in the hope that you would like it. I shall leave it with the estimable Mills, on my return.” “You must come and share it,” Philippa insisted. “Those boys of Nora's are coming in to dinner. Your gift shall be the piece de resistance.” “Then may I dine another night?” he begged. “This place encourages in me the grossest of appetites.” “Have no fear,” she replied. “You will never see that woodcock again. I shall have it for my luncheon to-morrow. I ordered dinner before I came out, and though it may be a simple feast, I promise that you shall not go away hungry.” “Will you promise that you will never send me away hungry?” he asked, dropping his voice for a moment.