“They came to us, Dick,” she said, “by hand.”
Felstead was, without a doubt, astonished. He turned round in his chair towards Philippa.
“By hand?” he repeated. “Do you mean to say that they were actually brought here by hand?”
Perhaps something in his manner warned them. Philippa laughed as she bent over his chair.
“We will tell you how they came, presently,” she declared, “but not until you have finished your lunch, drunk the last drop of that champagne, and had at least two glasses of the port that Mills has been decanting so carefully. After that we will see. Just now I have only one feeling, and I know that Helen has it, too. Nothing else matters except that we have you home again.”
Felstead patted his sister on the cheek, drew her face down to his and kissed her.
“It's so wonderful to be at home!” he exclaimed apologetically. “But I must warn you that I am the rabidest person alive. I went out to the war with a certain amount of respect for the Germans. I have come back loathing them like vermin. I spent—but I won't go on.”
Mills made his appearance with the decanter of port.
“I beg your ladyship's pardon,” he said, as he filled Felstead's glass, “but Mr. Lessingham has arrived and is in the library, waiting to see you.”