“That was before the war,” she sighed.
“I still think Henry is a dear, though I don't altogether understand him,” Helen said thoughtfully.
“No doubt,” Philippa assented, “but you'd find the not understanding him a little more galling, if you were his wife. You see, I didn't know that I was marrying a sort of sporting Mr. Skimpole.”
“I wonder,” Helen reflected, “how Henry and Mr. Lessingham will get on when they see more of one another.”
“I really don't care,” Philippa observed indifferently.
“I used to notice sometimes—that was soon after you were married,” Helen continued, “that Henry was just a little inclined to be jealous.”
Philippa withdrew her eyes from the sea. There was a queer little smile upon her lips.
“Well, if he still is,” she said, “I'll give him something to be jealous about.”
“Poor Mr. Lessingham!” Helen murmured.
Philippa's eyebrows were raised.