“I know that quite well,” she replied. “You have been making that chart you promised your miserable fishermen. None of those things interest me, Henry. I fear--I am very much inclined to say that none of your doings interest me. Least of all,” she went on, her voice quivering with passion, “do I appreciate in the least these mysterious appeals for my patience. I have some common sense, Henry.” “You're a suspicious little beast,” he told her. “Suspicious!” she scoffed. “What a word to use from a man who goes off fishing for whiting, and is lunching at the Carlton, some days afterwards, with two ladies of extraordinary attractions!” “That was a trifle awkward,” Sir Henry admitted, with a little burst of candour, “but it goes in with the rest, Philippa.” “Then it can stay with the rest,” she retorted, “exactly where I have placed it in my mind. Please understand me. Your conduct for the last twelve months absolves me from any tie there may be between us. If this explanation that you promise comes--in time, and I feel like it, very well. Until it does, I am perfectly free, and you, as my husband, are non-existent. That is my reply, Henry, to your request for further indulgence.” “Rather a foolish one, my dear,” he answered, patting her shoulder, “but then you are rather a child, aren't you?” She swung away from him angrily. “Don't touch me!” she exclaimed. “I mean every word of what I have said. As for my being a child--well, you may be sorry some day that you have persisted in treating me like one.” Sir Henry paused for a moment, watching her disappearing figure. There was an unusual shade of trouble in his face. His love for and confidence in his wife had been so absolute that even her threats had seemed to him like little morsels of wounded vanity thrown to him out of the froth of her temper. Yet at that moment a darker thought crossed his mind. Lessingham, he realised, was not a rival, after all, to be despised. He was a man of courage and tact, even though Sir Henry, in his own mind, had labelled him as a fool. If indeed he were coming back to Dreymarsh, what could it be for? How much had Philippa known about him? He stood there for a few moments in indecision. A great impulse had come to him to break his pledge, to tell her the truth. Then he made his disturbed way into the breakfast room. “Where's your mother, Nora?” he asked, as Helen took Philippa's place at the head of the table. “She wants some coffee and toast sent up to her room.” Nora explained. “The wind made her giddy.” Sir Henry breakfasted in silence, rang the bell, and ordered his car. “You going away again, Daddy?” Nora asked. “I am going to London this morning,” he replied, a little absently. “To London?” Helen repeated. “Does Philippa know?” “I haven't told her yet.” Helen turned towards Nora. “I wish you'd run up and see if your mother wants any more coffee, there's a dear,” she suggested.