Instantly Philippa became a prey to conflicting emotions. “My dear Robert! You are surely not jealous of both of us? Or are you, perhaps?”
“Who spoke of being jealous?” demanded Robert.
“You did,” she retorted.
“Merely because I object to your making these very pronounced friendships?”
“Aren’t you confusing me with your wife?” observed Philippa, with icy incisiveness. “Your tone is quite marital.”
There was a moment’s electric silence. Then, with a sudden movement, Philippa rose from the writing-table and came impulsively towards him.
“Robert, dear,” she begged, in her tenderest voice, “this is absurd. Let us continue to trust each other, and not be vulgar about our love.” She lifted her face pleadingly to his. It was an attitude which she was conscious became her wonderfully. The long curve of her throat never showed to better advantage than when her head was thrown back to look into her lover’s eyes.
Insensibly Robert’s face softened. He kissed her, this time warmly. Half an hour later, as she was putting on her hat to go, he said, in a tone purposely gentle and conciliatory:
“You’d better show me that note to Nevern. It won’t do to offend him. He’s a good fellow, though he does write rot. Perhaps I could get Field to look at some of his stuff—or Ridgway, possibly.”
Philippa turned over the pile of letters she had written, and found what she was seeking.