Lord Arleigh had been so accustomed to think of Philippa as a child that he could with difficulty imagine the fact that she was now a lovely girl, and one of the wealthiest heiresses in London.  He felt some curiosity about her.  How would she greet him?  How would she receive him?  He wrote to her at once, asking permission to visit her, and he came away from that visit with his eyes a little dazzled, his brain somewhat dazed, but his heart untouched.  His fancy was somewhat disturbed by the haunting memory of dark, splendid eyes, lighted with fire and passion, and a bright, radiant face and scarlet lips—­by a melange of amber, lace, and perfume—­but his heart was untouched.  She was beautiful beyond his fairest dreams of woman—­he owned that to himself—­but it was not the kind of beauty that he admired it was too vivid, too highly colored, too brilliant.  He preferred the sweet, pure lily to the queenly rose.  Still he said to himself that he had never seen a face or figure like Miss L’Estrange’s.  No wonder that she had half London at her feet.

He was pleased with her kind reception of him, although he had not read her welcome aright; he was too true a gentleman even to think that it was love which shone in her eyes and trembled on her lips—­love which made her voice falter and die away—­love which caused her to exert every art and grace of which she was mistress to fascinate him.  He was delighted with her—­his heart grew warm under the charm of her words, but he never dreamed of love.

He had said to himself that there must be no renewal of his childish nonsense of early days—­that he must be careful not to allude to it; to do so would be in bad taste—­not that he was vain enough to think she would attach any importance to it, even if he did so; but he was one of nature’s gentlemen, and he would have scorned to exaggerate or to say one word more than he meant.  Her welcome had been most graceful, most kind—­the beautiful face had softened and changed completely for him.  She had devoted herself entirely to him; nothing in all the wide world had seemed to her of the least interest except himself and his affairs—­books, music, pictures, even herself, her own triumphs, were as nothing when compared with him.  He would have been less than mortal not to have been both pleased and flattered.

Pressed so earnestly to return to dinner, he had promised to do so; and evening, the sweet-scented May evening, found him once more at Hyde Park.  If anything, Philippa looked more lovely.  She wore her favorite colors—­amber and white—­a dress of rich amber brocade, trimmed with white lace; the queenly head was circled with diamonds; jewels like fire gleamed on the white breast; there was a cluster of choice flowers in her bodice.  He had seen her hitherto as a girl; now he was to see her as the high-bred hostess, the mistress of a large and magnificent mansion.