“Since you are so philosophical,” Philippa observed, “let me ask you—should you do what I am going to do, if you were in my place?”
“I should not,” was the firm reply.
Philippa laughed heartily.
“Oh, I know what you are going to say!” Helen continued quickly. “You'll tell me, won't you, that I am not temperamental. I think in your heart you rather despise my absolute fidelity to Richard. You would call it cowlike, or something of that sort. There is a difference between us, Philippa, and that is why I am afraid to argue with you.”
“What should you do,” Philippa demanded, “if Richard failed you in some great thing?”
“I might suffer,” Helen confessed, “but my love would be there all the same. Perhaps for that reason I should suffer the more, but I should never be able to see with those who judged him hardly.”
“You think, then,” Philippa persisted, “that I ought still to remain Henry's loving and affectionate wife, ready to take my place amongst the pastimes of his life—when he feels inclined, for instance, to wander from his dark lady-love to something petite and of my complexion, or when he settles down at home for a few days after a fortnight's sport on the sea and expects me to tell him the war news?”
“I don't think that I should do that,” Helen admitted quietly, “but I am quite certain that I shouldn't run away with another man.”
“Why not?”
“Because I should be punishing myself too much.”