Then in a few minutes he began to think he must be in dream-land—­the rich, sweet voice, so clear, so soft, so low, was filling the room with sweetest music.  It was like no human voice that he remembered; seductive, full of passion and tenderness—­a voice that told its own story, that told of its owner’s power and charm—­a voice that carried away the hearts of the listeners irresistibly as the strong current carries the leaflet.

She sang of love, mighty, irresistible love, the king before whom all bow down; and as she sang he looked at her.  The soft, pearly light of the lamps fell on her glorious face, and seemed to render it more beautiful.  He wondered what spell was fast falling over him, for he saw nothing but Philippa’s face, heard nothing but the music that seemed to steep his senses as in a dream.

How fatally, wondrously lovely she was, this siren who sang to him of love, until every sense was full of silent ecstasy, until his face flushed, and his heart beat fast.  Suddenly his eyes met hers; the scarlet lips trembled, the white fingers grew unsteady; her eyelids drooped, and the sweet music stopped.

She tried to hide her confusion by smiling.

“You should not look at me, Norman,” she said, “when I sing; it embarrasses me.”

“You should contrive to look a little less beautiful then, Philippa,” he rejoined.  “What was that last song?”

“It is a new one,” she replied, “called ‘My Queen.’”

“I should like to read the words,” said Lord Arleigh.

In a few minutes she had found it for him, and they bent over the printed page together; her dark hair touched his cheek, the perfume from the white lilies she wore seemed to entrance him; he could not understand the spell that lay over him.

“Is it not beautiful?” she said.

“Yes, beautiful, but ideal; few women, I think, would equal this poet’s queen.”

“You do not know—­you cannot tell, Norman.  I think any woman who loves, and loves truly, becomes a queen.”

He looked at her, wondering at the passion in her voice—­wondering at the expression on her beautiful face.

“You are incredulous,” she said; “but it is true.  Love is woman’s dominion; let her but once enter it, and she becomes a queen; her heart and soul grow grander, the light of love crowns her.  It is the real diadem of womanhood, Norman; she knows no other.”

He drew back startled; her words seemed to rouse him into sudden consciousness.  She was quick enough to see it, and, with the distrait manner of a true woman of the world, quickly changed the subject.  She asked some trifling question about Beechgrove, and then said, suddenly: 

“I should like to see that fine old place 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.”