“I really think I should change at once, if I were you,” she suggested.
“Presently. I had a sort of foolish idea that I'd like to have a word or two with you first. I've been away for nearly a fortnight, haven't I?”
“You have,” Philippa assented. “Perhaps that is the reason why I feel that I haven't very much to say to you.”
“That sounds just a trifle hard,” he said slowly.
“I am hard sometimes,” Philippa confessed. “You know that quite well. There are times when I just feel as though I had no heart at all, nor any sympathy; when every sensation I might have had seems shrivelled up inside me.”
“Is that how you are feeling at the present time towards me, Philippa?” he asked.
Her needles flashed through the wool for a moment in silence.
“You had every warning,” she told him. “I tried to make you understand exactly how your behaviour disgusted me before you went away.”
“Yes, I remember,” he admitted. “I'm afraid, dear, you think I am a worthless sort of a fellow.”
Philippa had apparently dropped a stitch. She bent lower still over her knitting. There was a distinct frown upon her forehead, her mouth was unrecognisable.