e of yours, Norman. I was only
ten when mamma took me there the last time; that was rather too young to
appreciate its treasures. I should like to see it again."

"I hope you will see it, Philippa; I have many curiosities to show you.
I have sent home treasures from every great city I have visited."

She looked at him half wonderingly, half wistfully, but he said no more.
Could it be that he had no thought of ever asking her to be mistress and
queen of this house of his?

"You must have a party in the autumn," she said. "Lady Peters and I must
be among your guests."

"That will be an honor. I shall keep you to your word, Philippa." And
then he rose to go.

The dark, wistful eyes followed him. She drew a little nearer to him as
he held out his hand to say good-night.

"You are quite sure, Norman, that you are pleased to see me again?" she
interrogated, gently.

"Pleased! Why, Philippa, of course I am. What a strange question!"

"Because," she said, "there seems to be a cloud--a shadow--between us
that I do not remember to have existed before."

"We are both older," he explained, "and the familiarity of childhood
cannot exist when childhood ceases to be."

"I would rather be a child forever than that you should change to me,"
she said, quickly.

"I think," he returned, gravely, "that the only change in me is that I
admire you more than I have ever done"

And these words filled her with the keenest sense of rapture yet they
were but commonplace enough, if she had only realized it.

Chapter VIII.

Lord Arleigh raised his hat from his brow and stood for a few minutes
bareheaded in the starlight. He felt like a man who had been in the
stifling atmosphere of a conservatory; warmth and perfume had dazed him.
How beautiful Philippa was--how bewildering! What a nameless wondrous
charm there was about her! No wonder that half London was at her feet,
and that her smiles were eagerly sought. He was not the least in love
with her; admiration, homage, liking, but not love--anything but
that--filled him; yet he dreamed of her, thought of her, compared her
face with others that he had seen--all simply because her beauty had
dazed him.

"I can believe now in the sirens of old," he said to himself; "they must
have had just such dark, glowing eyes, such rich, sweet voices and
beautiful faces. I should pity the man who hopelessly loved Philippa
L'Estrange. And, if she ever loves any one, it will be easy for her