“I knew you would come,” she said.  “Lady Peters said you would be engaged.  I thought differently.”

“You did well to trust me,” he returned, laughingly; “it would require a very pressing engagement to keep me from the pleasure of attending you.”

He had thought her perfect on the previous evening, in the glitter of jewels and the gorgeous costume of amber and while; yet, if possible, she looked even better on this evening.  Her riding-habit was neat and plain, fitting close to the perfect figure, showing every gracious line and curve.

Philippa L’Estrange possessed that rare accomplishment among women, a graceful “seat” on horseback.  Lord Arleigh could not help noticing the admiring glances cast on her as they entered the park together.  He saw how completely she was queen of society.  Unusual homage followed her.  She was the observed of all observers; all the men seemed to pause and look at her.  Lord Arleigh heard repeatedly, as they rode along, the question, “Who is that beautiful girl?” Every one of note or distinction contrived to speak to her.  The Prince of Auboine, at that time the most feted guest in England, could hardly leave her.  Yet, in the midst of all, Lord Arleigh saw that she turned to him as the sunflower to the sun.  No matter with whom she was conversing, she never for one moment forgot him, never seemed inattentive, listened to him, smiled her brightest on him, while the May sun shone, and the white hawthorn flowers fell on the grass—­while the birds chirped merrily, and crowds of bright, happy people passed to and fro.

“How true she is to her old friends!” thought Lord Arleigh, when he saw that even a prince could not take her attention from him.

So they rode on through the sunlit air—­he fancy free, she loving him every moment with deeper, truer, warmer love.

“I should be so glad, Norman,” she said to him, “if you would give me a few riding-lessons.  I am sure I need them.”

He looked at the graceful figure, at the little hands that held the reins so deftly.

“I do not see what there is to teach you,” he observed; “I have never seen any one ride better.”

“Still I should be glad of some little instruction from you,” she said.  “I always liked riding with you, Norman.”

“I shall be only too pleased to ride with you every day when I am in town,” he told her; and, though he spoke kindly, with smiling lips, there was no warmth of love in his tone.

The day was very warm—­the sun had in it all the heat of June.  When they reached Verdun House, Philippa said: 

“You will come in for a short time, Norman?  You look warm and tired.  Williams—­the butler—­is famous for his claret-cup.”

He murmured something about being not fatigued, but disinclined for conversation.

“You will not see any one,” she said; “you shall come to my own particular little room, where no one dares enter, and we will have a quiet conversation there.”