At the last moment, unable to resist the charm of her favourite flower, she secured the bunch of violets in the laces at her breast.
Then Marion's voice was heard outside the door, and telling her maid that she would not require her services again that night, that she need not wait up for her, Philippa hurried to meet her friend.
"Dear thing! How nice you look," was Marion's comment. "What a lovely frock."
"I am so glad you like it. Poor mamma! She said it was too Early Victorian for anything. She despairs over my frocks."
"It is perfect," said Marion decidedly. "Thank goodness you know what suits you, and haven't got your skirt tied in at the ankles so that you shuffle like a Japanese."
"Or hop like a kangaroo!" added Philippa, laughing.
They descended into the hall, where Major Heathcote was standing in front of a cheerful fire which, notwithstanding the time of year, was crackling and spluttering on the hearth.
"Don't be shocked," he said cheerfully. "I hope you are not one of those uncomfortable people who consider fires immoral between May and October. The evenings are none too warm in this realm where sunshine never lingers and summer is unknown, and this house is always cold, or I feel it so--probably because I have lived for so long in more sultry climes."
"Yes, I expect you miss the sunshine," said Philippa as they walked into the dining-room.
"No. Do you know, I don't. Here in England people can't understand that you can have too much of it. You get so weary of perpetual glaring sunshine, and unchanging blue sky. There seems to be no variety and no rest, I remember as I landed from the trooper at Southampton after the South African war, hearing a Tommy say with a sigh of relief, 'Thank Gawd for a blooming grey sky,' and I quite agreed with him."
"I love the sunshine," said Marion, "and certainly we don't get too much of it here."
"No," replied Philippa; "but you do get the most wonderful cloud effects. Driving here this evening the sky was perfectly beautiful--a great bank of clouds like mountains and soft fleecy ones touched with pink overhead."
"What Dickie used to call the weeny woolly ones," said Marion softly. "Dear little boy, I wish he were here now. I remember once when he was much smaller we were walking on Bessmoor where you get such a wonderful view--he looked up and said, 'Does God live up there?' and I said, 'Yes,' because it was the only answer you could give a baby to such a question. 'Above the weeny woolly clouds?' he persisted. 'Yes,' I said again. 'Then,' he said in an awe-struck voice, 'He must be very careful not to put His foot through!'"