“Well, what shall I do first?” was Philippa’s comment as she seated herself at her own writing-table in the window.
Robert moved to his desk, and stood fidgeting with a paper-knife before he answered.
“So you don’t want to know anything about it?” he burst out at last. “What I’ve been doing? Who was there? Anything, in fact.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “My dear Robert, any one would think you’d been round the world, instead of a fortnight on the river.”
“You’d have been anxious enough a year ago,” he returned, bitterly.
She made an impatient exclamation. “How unreasonable you are! I come in, longing to see you, and hear all about it, and you’re as cross as two sticks. And now——”
In moments of irritation Philippa evinced a growing tendency to drop into the colloquial, but the obvious justice of her remark appealed to Robert.
“You’re quite right,” he said, penitently. “I’m unbearable.” He leaned over the back of her chair, and drawing her head to him kissed her on the forehead.
Philippa pulled herself together mentally and smiled.
“Give me the letters to write first,” she said, “and then you can dictate.”