But, as Lady Peters closed the door, he took a book from the table, and asked her what she had been reading lately--which was the book of that season. She replied to his questions, and to the remarks that followed; but they were not what she wanted to hear.
"Do not talk to me about books, Norman," she cried at last. "Tell me more about yourself; I want to hear more about you."
She did not notice the slight flush that spread over his face.
"If we are to talk about ourselves," he said, "I should prefer you to be the subject. You have grown very beautiful, Philippa."
His eyes took in every detail of the rich amber costume--the waving mass of dark hair--the splendid face, with its scarlet lips and glorious eyes--the white hands that moved so incessantly. He owned to himself that in all his travels he had seen nothing like the imperial loveliness of this dark-eyed girl.
"Does it please you to find me what you call beautiful?" she asked, shyly.
"Of course it does. I am very proud of you--proud to be known as the cousin of Philippa L'Estrange."
Nothing more! Had he nothing more than this to be proud of? Was he so blind that he could not see love in the girl's face--so deaf that he could not hear it in the modulations of her musical voice? She bent her beautiful face nearer him.
"We were always good friends, Norman," she said, simply, "you and I?"
"Yes, we were like brother and sister," he responded, "How we quarreled and made friends! Do you remember?"