He owned to himself that she was simply perfect.  He had seen nothing in better taste, although he had been on intimate terms with the great ones of the earth.  As he watched her, he thought to himself that, high and brilliant as was her station, it was not yet high enough for her.  She flung a charm so magical around her that he was insensibly attracted by it, yet he was not the least in love—­nothing was further from his thoughts.  He could not help seeing that, after a fashion, she treated him differently from her other guests.  He could not have told why or how; he felt only a certain subtle difference; her voice seemed to take another tone in addressing him, her face another expression as though she regarded him as one quite apart from all others.

The dinner-party was a success, as was every kind of entertainment with which Philippa L’Estrange was concerned.  When the visitors rose to take their leave, Norman rose also.  She was standing near him.

“Do not go yet, Norman,” she said; “it is quite early.  Stay, and I will sing to you.”

She spoke in so low a tone of voice that no one else heard her.  He was quite willing.  Where could he feel more at home than in this charming drawing-room, with this beautiful girl, his old friend and playmate?

She bade adieu to her visitors, and then turned to him with such a smile as might have lost or won Troy.

“I thought they would never go,” she said; “and it seems to me that I have barely exchanged one word with you yet, Norman.”

“We have talked many hours,” he returned, laughing.

“Ah, you count time by the old fashion, hours and minutes.  I forget it when I am talking to one I—­to an old friend like you.”

“You are enthusiastic,” said Lord Arleigh, wondering at the light on the splendid face.

“Nay, I am constant,” she rejoined.

And for a few minutes after that silence reigned between them.  Philippa was the first to break it.

“Do you remember,” she asked, “that you used to praise my voice, and prophesy that I should sing well?”

“Yes, I remember,” he replied.

“I have worked hard at my music,” she continued, “in the hope of pleasing you.”

“In the hope of pleasing me?” he interrogated.  “It was kind to think so much of me.”

“Of whom should I think, if not of you?” she inquired.

There were both love and reproach in her voice—­he heard neither.  Had he been as vain as he was proud, he would have been quicker to detect her love for himself.

The windows had been opened because the evening air was so clear and sweet; it came in now, and seemed to give the flowers a sweeter fragrance.  Lord Arleigh drew his chair to the piano.

“I want you only to listen,” she said.  “You will have no turning over to do for me; the songs I love best I know by heart.  Shut your eyes, Norman, and dream.”

“I shall dream more vividly if I keep them open and look at you,” he returned.