“Guilty, my dear,” Sir Henry admitted.  “Mills is just getting me something to eat in the gun room, and then I am going to have a bath and change my clothes.”

“And shave, 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.  “You’re such an ardent recruiter, you ought to make sure that he is doing his bit of butchery.”

Philippa looked up at her husband for a moment and back at her work.