“Your great friend?”
“Not my friend, Osbert.”
“Yet you seem to be on remarkably confidential terms with him.”
“Perhaps,” she replied. “But for all that we are not friends; far from it. One day I will explain it all to you, but not now.”
“Why not now?” he returned.
“Osbert, can you not trust me?” she protested.
Her tone and the look which accompanied the words would have surely convinced him had not the tell-tale bandage continued to accuse her. He hated himself for the words his suspicion made him speak, shrank from the dilemma he must force upon her: yet the horrible uncertainty could not go on. He must get at the truth, whatever the cost might be.
“You look pale, Philippa,” he said, trying to steady his voice. “Are you not well? Why is your throat wrapped up?”
“I have a little cold,” she answered.
“The band round your neck is not becoming,” he continued, hating himself for the falsehood. “Is your throat very bad?”