The more she saw of him the better she liked him—­his single-mindedness, his chivalry, his faith in women and his respect for them, were greater than she had seen in any other, and she loved him for these qualities.  The more she contrasted him with others, the greater, deeper, and wider grew her love.  It must be that in time he should care for her.

The Duchess of Aytoun gave a grand ball, to which, as belle of the season, Philippa was invited.

“Shall you go?” she asked of Lord Arleigh.

“I have hardly decided,” he replied.

“Do go, Norman; I like waltzing, but I do not care to waltz with every one.  Do go, that I may dance with you.”

“You do not mind waltzing with me, then?” he said.

The glance she gave him was answer sufficient.  He could not kelp feeling flattered.

“I shall be there, Philippa,” he said; and then she promised herself on that evening she would try to discover what his sentiments were with regard to her.

She took great pains with her toilet; she did not wish to startle, but to attract—­and the two things were very different.  Her dress looked brilliant, being of a silvery texture; the trimming was composed of small fern-leaves; a parure of fine diamonds crowned her head.

The effect of the dress was striking, and Philippa herself had never looked more lovely.  There was a flush of rose-color on her face, a light in her eyes.  If ever woman’s face told a story, hers did—­if ever love softened, made more tender and pure any face on earth, it was hers.

After her toilet was complete, she stood for a few minutes looking in her mirror.  The tall, stately figure in the glorious dress was perfect; the face, framed in shining masses of dark hair, was perfect too.

“If I can but win one word from him!” she thought.  “If I can but remind him of those childish days when he used to call me his little wife!”

She no sooner made her appearance than, as was usual, she was surrounded by a little court of admirers—­the Duke of Mornton first among them.  They little guessed that they owed her complacent reception of their compliments to the fact that she was not even attending to them, but with her whole soul in her eyes was watching for Lord Arleigh’s arrival.  The duke even flattered himself that he was making some progress, because at some chance word from him the beautiful face flushed a deep crimson.  How was he to know that Lord Arleigh had at that moment entered the room?

The latter could not help feeling pleased and flattered at the way in which Philippa received him.  He was but mortal, and he could not help seeing the dark eyes shine, the scarlet lips tremble, the whole face soften.  Presently she placed her hand on his arm, and walked away with him.

“I was growing impatient, Norman,” she said; and then, remembering his criticisms on the wooing of women, she hastened to add—­“impatient at the want of novelty; it seems to me that in London ball-rooms all the men talk in the same fashion.”