She laid her hand on his shoulder. "Philip, don't you trust me? Do you think I can't know how you feel? If I can't help you in one way I can in another perhaps, by giving you all my sympathy and understanding. I hope if I had been placed as you are that I should have done exactly the same. I see—I realise——" she faltered pitifully, "that as things are you can't take the Star, you can't owe it to me in the least degree. I will explain somehow to my father; leave it to me, it isn't too late, and some day you will have it—earn it yourself entirely—and—it may be the other one too, I hope so, I do indeed! if she is worthy of you. But oh! how could she, how could she leave your letter unanswered! There may have been some mistake, it may come all right, don't give up hope. The most wonderful things happen. And I—I shall always be your friend——"
She stopped, breathing fast; she had spoken so rapidly, under such stress of emotion. As he met her strained, wide-open eyes she looked almost unreal. A mist clouded his vision; he felt choked as he tried to answer, to thank her; speech seemed so futile; for him the whole thing was beyond words; he knew he was failing hopelessly to express himself.
She gave a tremulous laugh that was half a sob. "It's all right, don't say anything, don't try. We both know. Let's get back to the crowd," and moving to the door she turned out the lights. Quickly she went before him, down the steps and along the narrow passage. He saw her mingle with the throng, her head held high, talking and laughing, a bright, conspicuous figure, a brave, noble-hearted girl! He wished honestly that he could have loved her; wished it quite apart from the solid advantages she could have brought him as his wife.
CHAPTER XI
A day or two later when Philip, preparatory to his departure from London, was choosing a fishing-rod in a well-known shop devoted to the requirements of anglers, a little lady dressed in the height of fashion rustled over to him from the farther end of the showroom where she had been standing in company with an elderly, distinguished-looking man.
"Is it Mr. Flint?" she inquired gaily; and as he looked at her in puzzled politeness a vague memory returned to him of someone trigged out in sequins and tinsel, with a tambourine....
"You don't remember me? This time I'm not pretending. We really have met before! My name is Matthews—Maud Verrall, you know, Stella Crayfield's friend. How history repeats itself. Fancy my having to introduce myself again, and all among fishing-rods and tackle and things, instead of in a ball-room full of dressed-up idiots in India!"
"Why, of course—of course, how are you?" he said, gathering his wits together, battling with an impulse to attack her on the spot as to Stella's whereabouts, to ask her all about her. If anyone knew it would be this wonderfully garbed little person, who now proceeded to beckon to her deserted companion.