He was uncomfortable, without knowing why—­haunted by a vague, miserable suspicion he could not explain, by a presentiment he could not understand—­compelled against his will to watch her, yet unable to detect anything in her words and manner that justified his doing so.  It had been arranged that after the fete he should return to Verdun House with Lady Peters and Philippa.  He had half promised to dine and spend the evening there, but now he wondered if that arrangement would be agreeable to Philippa.  He felt that some degree of restraint had arisen between them.

He was thinking what excuse he could frame, when Philippa sent for him.  He looked into the fresh young face; there was no cloud on it.

“Norman,” she said, “I find that Lady Peters has asked Miss Byrton to join us at dinner—­will you come now?  It has been a charming day, but I must own that the warmth of the sun has tired me.”

Her tone of voice was so calm, so unruffled, he could have laughed at himself for his suspicions, his fears.

“I am quite ready,” he replied.  “If you would like the carriage ordered, we will go at once.”

He noticed her going home more particularly than he had ever done before.  She was a trifle paler, and there was a languid expression in her dark eyes which might arise from fatigue, but she talked lightly as usual.  If anything, she was even kinder to him than usual, never evincing the least consciousness of what had happened.  Could it have been a dream?  Never was man so puzzled as Lord Arleigh.

They talked after dinner about a grand fancy ball that Miss Byrton intended giving at her mansion in Grosvenor Square.  She was one of those who believed implicitly in the engagement between Lord Arleigh and Miss L’Estrange.

“I have a Waverley quadrille already formed,” said Miss Byrton—­“that is de rigueur.  There could not be a fancy ball without a Waverley quadrille.  How I should like two Shakesperian ones!  I thought of having one from ‘As You Like It’ and another from ‘Romeo and Juliet;’ and, Miss L’Estrange, I wish you would come as Juliet.  It seems rude even to suggest a character to any one with such perfect taste as yours—­still I should like a beautiful Juliet—­Juliet in white satin, and glimmer of pearls.”

“I am quite willing,” returned Philippa. “Juliet is one of my favorite heroines.  How many Romeos will you have?”

“Only one, if I can so manage it,” replied Miss Byrton—­“and that will be Lord Arleigh.”

She looked at him as she spoke; he shook his head, laughingly.

“No—­I yield to no one in reverence for the creations of the great poet,” he said; “but, to tell the truth, I do not remember that the character of Romeo ever had any great charm for me.”

“Why not?” asked Miss Byrton.

“I cannot tell you; I am very much afraid that I prefer Othello—­the noble Moor.  Perhaps it is because sentiment has not any great attraction for me.  I do not think I could ever kill myself for love.  I should make a sorry Romeo, Miss Byrton.”