Philippa remained standing by the mantelpiece. There was impatience in her face, and a certain indecision. Once she opened her lips to speak, and refrained. Finally, with a shrug of the shoulders, she went to him and laid her hand gently on his arm.
“Surely this is not jealousy, Robert?” she said, plaintively. “After all our talks? After our mutual agreement upon that subject?”
“It’s all very well!” exclaimed Robert; “but if, under—our circumstances, a woman doesn’t know what is due to the man she professes to love, would you have him say nothing?”
“I would have him so trust the woman he professes to love that he should feel jealousy an insult to her,” she returned, with lowered eyelids.
Robert did not answer for a moment; when he spoke his voice was husky.
“You don’t understand,” he began, “how a man feels when——”
“When a woman spends half an hour in giving good advice to a boy?” smiled Philippa. “Oh, Robert, don’t let us profane our love. Do let us keep vulgar jealousy out of it. I want so much to make it a real inspiration, an ennobling influence in our lives. Come, Robert! Be good.”
The last words were uttered pleadingly, and he turned. She looked very beautiful, with her face upraised to his, and moved by a sudden gust of passion, Robert flung his arms round her and kissed her white throat.
An hour later, however, in spite of their reconciliation, Robert was again moody and depressed. He pushed his tea-cup away from him, and began to wander restlessly about the room, a sure sign with him of mental perturbation. Philippa lay back in her low chair, and watched him furtively. There was a certain exasperation in her face which, if he had not been too preoccupied, Robert would have found easily discernible.