“I wonder if New York would not do?” he ventured.

“I expect I should like New York,” she murmured.

“I think,” he said, “in fact, I am almost sure that when I leave here I shall go to the United States.”

She looked at him and turned suddenly away.  They arrived just then at their destination, and the moment passed.  Lessingham left his companion in the lounge while he went back into the restaurant to secure his table and order lunch.  When he came back, he found Philippa sitting very upright and with a significant glitter in her eyes.

“Look over there,” she whispered, “by the palm.”

He followed the direction which she indicated.  A man was standing against one of the pillars, talking to a tall, dark woman, obviously a foreigner, wrapped in wonderful furs.  There was something familiar about his figure and the slight droop of his head.

“Why, it’s Sir Henry!” Lessingham exclaimed, as the man turned around.

“My husband,” Philippa faltered.

Sir Henry, if indeed it were he, seemed afflicted with a sudden shortsightedness.  He met the incredulous gaze both of Lessingham and his wife without recognition or any sign of flinching.  At that distance it was impossible to see the tightening of his lips and the steely flash in his blue eyes.

“The whiting seem to have brought him a long way,” Philippa said, with an unnatural little laugh.

“Shall I go and speak to him?” Lessingham asked.

“For heaven’s sake, no!” she insisted.  “Don’t leave me.  I wouldn’t have him come near me for anything in the world.  It is only a few weeks ago that I begged him to come to London with me, and he said that he hated the place.  You don’t know—­the woman?”

Lessingham shook his head.

“She looks like a foreigner,” was all he could say.

“Take me in to lunch at once,” Philippa begged, rising abruptly to her feet.  “This is really the last straw.”

They passed up the stairway and within a few feet of where Sir Henry was standing.  He appeared absorbed, however, in conversation with his companion, and did not even turn around.  Philippa’s little face seemed to have hardened as she took her seat.  Only her eyes were still unnaturally bright.

“I am so sorry if this has annoyed you,” Lessingham regretted.  “You would not care to go elsewhere?”

“I?  Go anywhere else?” she exclaimed scornfully.  “Thank you, I am perfectly satisfied here.  And with my companion,” she added, with a brilliant little smile.  “Now tell me about New York.  Have you ever been there?”

“Twice,” he told her.  “At present the dream of my life is to go there with you.”

She looked at him a little wonderingly.

“I wonder if you really care,” she said.  “Men get so much into the habit of saying that sort of thing to women.  Sometimes it seems to me they must do a great deal of mischief.  But you—­Is that really your wish?”