"I haven't any heart for anything just now." He took a sombre but agitated leave of his hostess, and went out into the twilight, cursing his lack of ease, remembering the things which he had meant to say, and hating himself for having forgotten them.
Philippa, to whom his departure had been, as it always was, a relief, was already leaning forward in her chair with her arm around Helen's neck.
"I thought that extraordinary man would never go," she exclaimed, "and I was longing to send for you, Helen.

London has been such a dreary chapter of disappointments." "What a sickening time you must have had, dear!" "It was horrid," Philippa assented sadly, "but you know Henry is no use at all, and I should have felt miserable unless I had gone.

I have been to every friend at the War Office, and every friend who has friends there.

I have made every sort of enquiry, and I know just as much now as I did when I left here--that Richard was a prisoner at Wittenberg the last time they heard, and that they have received no notification whatever concerning him for the last two months." Helen glanced at the calendar.
"It is just two months to-day," she said mournfully, "since we heard." "And then," Philippa sighed, "he hadn't received a single one of our parcels." Helen rose suddenly to her feet.

She was a tall, fair girl of the best Saxon type, slim but not in the least angular, with every promise, indeed, of a fuller and more gracious development in the years to come.
She was barely twenty-two years old, and, as is common with girls of her complexion, seemed younger.