Philippa was a beautiful, high-sprited girl.  Her vivacity and animation amused him.  He had spoken the truth in saying that he had met no one he liked better than his old friend.  He had seen beautiful girls, lovely women, but he had not fallen in love.  Indeed, love with the Arleighs was a serious matter.  They did not look lightly upon it.  Norman.  Lord Arleigh, had not fallen; in love, but he had begun to think very seriously about Philippa L’Estrange.  He had been fond of her as a child, with the kind of affection that often exists between children.  He had called her his “little wife” in jest, not in earnest.  He had listened to the discussions between the two ladies as he would have listened had they been talking about adding a new wing to the house.  It was not until he came to the years of manhood that he began to see how serious the whole matter was.  Then he remembered with infinite satisfaction that there had been nothing binding, that he had never even mentioned the word “love” to Philippa L’Estrange, that he had never made love to her, that the whole matter was merely a something that had arisen in the imagination of two ladies.

He was not in the least degree in love with Philippa.  She was a brunette—­he preferred a blonde; brunette beauty had no charm for him.  He liked gentle, fair-haired women, tender of heart and soul—­brilliancy did not charm him.  Even when, previously to going abroad, he had gone down to Verdun Royal to say good-by, there was not the least approach to love in his heart.  He had thought Philippa very charming and very picturesque as she stood under the lilac-trees; he had said truly that he should never see a lilac without thinking of her as she stood there.  But that had not meant that he loved her.

He had bent down, as he considered himself in courtesy bound, to kiss her face when he bade her adieu; but it was no lover’s kiss that fell so lightly on her lips.  He realized to himself most fully the fact that, although he liked her, cared a great deal for her, and felt that she stood in the place of a sister to him, he did not love her.

But about Philippa herself?  He was not vain; the proud, stately Lord Arleigh knew nothing of vanity.  He could not think that the childish folly had taken deep root in her heart-he would not believe it.  She had been a child like himself; perhaps even she had forgotten the nonsense more completely than he himself had.  On his return to England, the first thing he heard when he reached London was that his old friend and playfellow—­the girl he had called his little wife—­was the belle of the season, with half London at her feet.

Chapter VII.