“Incidentally,” Sir Henry queried, “do you happen to have come across any one here who ever heard of him before?”
“I don't remember any one,” Philippa replied. “He was at college with Richard, you know.”
Sir Henry nodded.
“Of course, that's a wonderful introduction to you and Helen,” he admitted. “And by-the-by, that reminds me,” he went on, “I never saw such a change in two women in my life, as in you and Helen. A few weeks ago you were fretting yourselves to death about Dick. Now you don't seem to mention him, you both of you look as though you hadn't a care in the world, and yet you say you haven't heard from him. Upon my word, this is getting to be a house of mysteries!”
“The only mystery in it that I can see, is you, Henry,” she declared.
“Me?” he protested. “I'm one of the simplest-minded fellows alive. What is there mysterious about me?”
“Your ignominious life,” was the cold reply.
“Jove, I got it that time!” he groaned,—“got it in the neck! But didn't I tell you just now that I was turning over a new leaf?”
“Then prove it,” Philippa pleaded. “Let me write to Rayton and beg him to use his influence to get you something to do. I am sure you would be happier, and I can't tell you what a difference it would make to me.”
“It's that indoor work I couldn't stick, old thing,” he confided. “You know, they're saying all the time it's a young man's war. They'd make me take some one's place at home behind a desk.”