“How are you, Robin?” Lady Wilmot exclaimed, extending a hand. “And why are you in this direction on your wife’s at-home day? I’m on my way to her. How is she? As pretty as ever? I met her at the Duquesne’s last week, and thought her looking charming. The country and your exclusive society, my dear, evidently disagreed with her.”
“You are always kind,” returned Robert.
“And what is this I hear about a book of hers?” she pursued.
“It’s coming out on Monday,” said Robert, thankful to be able to supply the information.
“You’ll have a rival near home!” chuckled his companion. “That last book of yours isn’t doing much, is it? Knights and castles and things are off for the moment, I think. Why don’t you write a society novel? They always take, if you make the women spiteful enough; but I admit the difficulty of that. Well, I must be off. Your wife’s a good hostess. I never miss her parties. Good-bye, my dear. When will you come and dine?” The last question was put in a shrill voice over her shoulder, as the car glided off.
Robert walked on. The little interview had not raised his spirits, and as he turned into the quiet, rather shabby little road which contained Philippa’s studio, it was with a shock the reverse of pleasant that he saw Nevern coming down the steps of her house. He knew the young man slightly, and nodded to him as he passed. Before the door opened, he noticed that Nevern turned and watched his admittance with what his imagination, at least, construed into an angry frown.
Philippa opened the door—she kept no servant—and he followed her upstairs without speaking.
When the studio door closed she turned round and looked at him, inquiry in her eyes.
“Well?” she said, tenderly, in her deepest voice as she held out both hands.
Robert ignored them, and walked moodily towards the fire.