Dad," Nora reminded him.

"And shave, you young pest," her father agreed, patting her on the
shoulder. "Run away and play billiards with Helen. I want to talk to
your mother until my dinner's ready."

Nora acquiesced promptly.

"Come along, Helen, I'll give you twenty-five up. Or perhaps you'd like
to play shell out?" she proposed. "Arthur Sinclair says I have improved
in my potting more than any one he ever knew."

Sir Henry opened the door and closed it after them. Then he returned and
seated himself on the lounge by Philippa's side. She glanced up at
him as though in surprise, and, stretching out her hand towards her
work-basket, took up some knitting.

"I really think I should change at once, if I were you," she suggested.

"Presently. I had a sort of foolish idea that I'd like to have a word or
two with you first. I've been away for nearly a fortnight, haven't I?"

"You have," Philippa assented. "Perhaps that is the reason why I feel
that I haven't very much to say to you."

"That sounds just a trifle hard," he said slowly.

"I am hard sometimes," Philippa confessed. "You know that quite well.
There are times when I just feel as though I had no heart at all, nor
any sympathy; when every sensation I might have had seems shrivelled up
inside me."

"Is that how you are feeling at the present time towards me, Philippa?"
he asked.

Her needles flashed through the wool for a moment in silence.

"You had every warning," she told him. "I tried to make you understand
exactly how your behaviour disgusted me before you went away."

"Yes, I remember," he admitted. "I'm afraid, dear, you think I am a
worthless sort of a fellow."

Philippa had apparently dropped a stitch. She bent lower still over her
knitting. There was a distinct frown upon her forehead, her mouth was
unrecognisable.

"Your friend Lessingham is here still, I understand?" her husband
remarked presently.

"Yes," Philippa assented, "he is dining to-night. You will probably see
him in a few minutes."

Sir Henry looked thoughtful, and studied for a moment the toe of a
remarkably unprepossessing looking shoe.

"You're so keen about that sort of thing," he said, "what about
Lessingham? He is not soldiering or anything, is he?"

"I have no idea," Philippa replied. "He walks with a slight limp and
admits that he is here as a convalescent, but he hasn't told us very
much about himself."

"I wonder you haven't tackled him," Sir Henry continued.