“Philippa, old girl,” he pleaded, “don't let us quarrel. I have had such a hard fortnight, a nor'easter blowing all the time, and the dirtiest seas I've ever known at this time of the year. For five days I hadn't a dry stitch on me, and it was touch and go more than once. We were all in the water together, and there was a nasty green wave that looked like a mountain overhead, and the side of our own boat bending over us as though it meant to squeeze our ribs in. It looked like ten to one against us, Phil, and I got a worse chill than the sea ever gave me when I thought that I shouldn't see you again.” Philippa laid down her knitting. She looked searchingly into her husband's face. She was very far from indifferent to his altered tone. “Henry,” she said, “that sounds very terrible, but why do you run such risks--unworthily? Do you think that I couldn't give you all that you want, all that I have to give, if you came home to me with a story like this and I knew that you had been facing death righteously and honourably for your country's sake? Why, Henry, there isn't a man in the world could have such a welcome as I could give you. Do you think I am cold? Of course you don't! Do you think I want to feel as I have done this last fortnight towards you? Why, it's misery! It makes me feel inclined to commit any folly, any madness, to get rid of it all.” Her husband hesitated. A frown had darkened his face. He had the air of one who is on the eve of a confession. “Philippa,” he began, “you know that when I go out on these fishing expeditions, I also put in some work at the new chart which I am so anxious to prepare for the fishermen.” Philippa shook her head impatiently. “Don't talk to me about your fishermen, Henry! I'm as sick with them as I am with you. You can see twenty or thirty of them any morning, lounging about the quay, strapping young fellows who shelter themselves behind the plea of privileged employment. We are notorious down here for our skulkers, and you--you who should be the one man to set them an example, are as bad as they are. You deliberately encourage them.” Sir Henry abandoned his position by his wife's side, His face darkened and his eyes flashed. “Skulkers?” he repeated furiously. Philippa looked at him without flinching. “Yes! Don't you like the word?” The angry flush faded from his cheeks as quickly as it had come. He laughed a little unnaturally, took up a cigarette from an open box, and lit it. “It isn't a pleasant one, is it, Philippa?” he observed, thrusting his hands into his jacket pockets strolling away. “If one doesn't feel the call--well, there you are, you see. Jove, that's a fine fish.” He stood admiring the codling upon the scales. Philippa continued her work. “If you intend to spend the rest of the evening with us,” she told him calmly, “please let me remind you again that we have guests for dinner. Your present attire may be comfortable but it is scarcely becoming.”