“Your friend Lessingham is here still, I understand?” her husband remarked presently.
“Yes,” Philippa assented, “he is dining to-night. You will probably see him in a few minutes.”
Sir Henry looked thoughtful, and studied for a moment the toe of a remarkably unprepossessing looking shoe.
“You're so keen about that sort of thing,” he said, “what about Lessingham? He is not soldiering or anything, is he?”
“I have no idea,” Philippa replied. “He walks with a slight limp and admits that he is here as a convalescent, but he hasn't told us very much about himself.”
“I wonder you haven't tackled him,” Sir Henry continued. “You're such an ardent recruiter, you ought to make sure that he is doing his bit of butchery.”
Philippa looked up at her husband for a moment and back at her work.
“Mr. Lessingham,” she said, “is a very delightful friend, whose stay here every one is enjoying very much, but he is a comparative stranger. I feel no responsibility as to his actions.”
“And you do as to mine?”
“Naturally.”