"Tell me all about it," he suggested.
Lily had never thought it possible that she should put her vague disappointment and weariness into words, least of all to her father. Nevertheless she found herself trying to do so.
"It isn't anything—that's the worst of it. Nothing definite. Only Nicholas—Nicholas and I—I wish I loved him more than I do—he's disappointed in me."
"No, no," protested Philip. "That great deprivation is worse for you than for him—besides, my poor dear child, you're still young——"
"It isn't that," said Lily. "He was kinder than I can ever say about that—after all, it isn't my fault, and besides, I might have a child, even yet—they didn't say it was impossible. It's just ourselves—Nicholas and me."
"My child!"
Philip Stellenthorpe looked thoroughly frightened. "I know there's a great disparity of years—but you were fully aware of that when you married him. You were in love with him, Lily."
She made no answer.
"And he with you," said her father hurriedly. "I was deeply touched, at the time, by the way in which he spoke of you. But, my little darling, you know that being in love, as people call it, isn't a thing that lasts for ever. Something better comes to take its place. And there are bound to be little frictions, in even the happiest marriages. You mustn't let yourself exaggerate. There's been no misunderstanding between you, has there?"
Lily knew that by the word "misunderstanding" he meant dispute, and she said that there had been none.