Philippa held up her hands in horror.

“No more poetry to-night, dear Lady Peters; we have had more than enough.”

“Is that true, Lord Arleigh?  Have you really had more than enough?”

“I have not found it so,” he replied.  “However, I must go.  I wish time would sometimes stand still; all pleasant hours end so soon.  Good-night, Lady Peters.”

But that most discreet of chaperons had already re-entered the drawing-room—­it was no part of her business to be present when the two friends said good-night.

“Good-night, Philippa,” he said, in a low, gentle voice, bending over her.

The wind stirred her perfumed hair until it touched his cheek, the leaves of the crimson roses fell in a shower around her.  She raised her beautiful pale face to his—­the unspeakable love, the yearning sorrow on it, moved him greatly.  He bent down and touched her brow with his lips.

“Good-night, Philippa, my sister—­my friend,” he said.

Even by the faint starlight he saw a change pass over her face.

“Good-night,” she responded.  “I have more to say to you, but Lady Peters will be horrified if you remain any longer.  You will call to-morrow, and then I can finish my conversation?”

“I will come,” he replied, gravely.

He waited a moment to see if she would pass into the drawing-room before him, but she turned away and leaned her arms on the stone balustrade.

It was nearly half an hour afterward when Lady Peters once more drew aside the hangings.

“Philippa,” she said, gently, “you will take cold out there.”

She wondered why the girl paused some few minutes before answering; then Miss L’Estrange said, in a low, calm voice: 

“Do not wait for me, Lady Peters; I am thinking and do not wish to be interrupted.”

But Lady Peters did not seem quite satisfied.

“I do not like to leave you sitting there,” she said, “the servants will think it strange.”

“Their thoughts do not concern me,” she returned, haughtily.  “Good-night, Lady Peters; do not interrupt me again, if you please.”

And the good-tempered chaperon went away, thinking to herself that perhaps she had done wrong in interrupting the tete-a-tete.

“Still I did it for the best,” she said to herself; “and servants will talk.”

Philippa L’Estrange did not move.  Lady Peters thought she spoke in a calm, proud voice.  She would have been surprised could she have seen the beautiful face all wet with tears; for, Philippa had laid her head on the cold stone, and was weeping such tears as women weep but once in life.  She sat there not striving to subdue the tempest of emotion that shook her, giving full vent to her passion of grief, stretching out her hands and crying to her lost love.