“Oh, like a coward, if you like, or a fool. Go on.”
“She has asked for explanations to which she is perfectly entitled,” Helen continued, “and you have given her none. You have treated her like something between a doll and a child. Philippa is as good and sweet as any woman who ever lived, but hasn't it ever occurred to you that women are rather mysterious beings? They may sometimes do, out of a furious sense of being wrongly treated, out of a sort of aggravated pique, what they would never do for any other reason. If you must go, come back to-night, Henry. Come back, and if you are obstinate, and won't tell Philippa all that she has a right to know, tell her about that luncheon in town.”
Sir Henry frowned.
“It's all very well, you know, Helen,” he said, “but a woman ought to trust her husband.”
“I am your friend, remember,” Helen replied, “and upon my word, I couldn't trust and believe even in Dick, if he behaved as you have done for the last twelve months.”
Sir Henry made a grimace.
“Well, that settles it, I suppose, then,” he observed. “I'll have one more try and see what I can do with Philippa. Perhaps a hint of what's going on may satisfy her.”
He climbed the stairs, meeting Nora on her way down, and knocked at his wife's door. There was no reply. He tried the handle and found the door locked.
“Are you there, Philippa?” he asked.
“Yes!” she replied coldly.