“Still, to-night, I must say, I should have expected to have found her more depressed than ever,” Sir Henry went on. “She hoped so much from your trip to London, and you apparently accomplished nothing.”
“Nothing at all.”
“And you have had no letters?”
“None.”
“Then Helen's high spirits, I suppose, are only part of woman's natural inconsistency.—Philippa, dear!”
“Yes?”
“I am glad to be at home. I am glad to see you sitting there. I know you are nursing up something, some little thunderbolt to launch at me. Won't you launch it and let's get it over?”
Philippa laid down the book which she had been reading, and turned to face her husband. He made a little grimace.
“Don't look so severe,” he begged. “You frighten me before you begin.”
“I'm sorry,” she said, “but my face probably reflects my feelings. I am hurt and grieved and disappointed in you, Henry.”