towards
Lessingham.

"You see," he complained a little irritably, "my wife doesn't approve of
my taking an interest even in fishing while the war's on, but, hang it
all, what are you to do when you reach my age? Thinks I ought to be a
special constable, don't you, Philippa?"

"Need we discuss this before Mr. Lessingham?" she asked, without looking
up from her paper.

Lessingham promptly prepared to take his departure.

"See something more of you, I hope," Sir Henry remarked hospitably, as
he conducted his guest to the door. "Where are you staying here?"

"At the hotel."

"Which?"

"I did not understand that there was more than one," Lessingham replied.
"I simply wrote to The Hotel, Dreymarsh."

"There is only one hotel open, of course, Mr. Lessingham," Philippa
observed, turning towards him. "Why do you ask such an absurd question,
Henry? The 'Grand' is full of soldiers. Come and see us whenever you
feel inclined, Mr. Lessingham."

"I shall certainly take advantage of your permission, Lady Cranston,"
were the farewell words of this unusual visitor as he bowed himself out.

Sir Henry moved to the sideboard and helped himself to a whisky and
soda. Philippa laid down her newspaper and watched him as though waiting
patiently for his return. Helen and Nora had already obeyed the summons
of the dressing bell.

"Henry, I want to hear your news," she insisted. He threw himself into
an easy-chair and turned over the contents of Philippa's workbasket.

"Where's that tie of mine you were mending?" he asked. "Is it finished
yet?"

"It is upstairs somewhere," she replied. "No, I have not finished it.
Why do you ask? You have plenty, haven't you?"

"Drawers full," he admitted cheerfully. "Half of them I can never wear,
though. I like that black and white fellow. Your friend Lessingham was
wearing one exactly like it."

"It isn't exactly an uncommon pattern," Philippa reminded him.

"Seems to have the family taste in clothes," Sir Henry continued,
stroking his chin. "That grey tweed suit of his was exactly the same
pattern as the suit Richard was wearing, the last time I saw him in
mufti."

"They probably go to the same tailor," Philippa remarked equably.

Sir Henry abandoned the subject. He was once more engrossed in an
examination of the mackerel spinners.

"You didn't answer my question about Jimmy Dumble," he ventured
presently.

Philippa turned and looked at him. Her eyes were usually very sweet and
s