They passed up the stairway and within a few feet of where Sir Henry was standing. He appeared absorbed, however, in conversation with his companion, and did not even turn around. Philippa's little face seemed to have hardened as she took her seat. Only her eyes were still unnaturally bright.
“I am so sorry if this has annoyed you,” Lessingham regretted. “You would not care to go elsewhere?”
“I? Go anywhere else?” she exclaimed scornfully. “Thank you, I am perfectly satisfied here. And with my companion,” she added, with a brilliant little smile. “Now tell me about New York. Have you ever been there?”
“Twice,” he told her. “At present the dream of my life is to go there with you.”
She looked at him a little wonderingly.
“I wonder if you really care,” she said. “Men get so much into the habit of saying that sort of thing to women. Sometimes it seems to me they must do a great deal of mischief. But you—Is that really your wish?”
“I would sacrifice everything that I have ever held dear in life,” he declared, with his face aglow, “for its realization.”
“But you would be a deserter from your country,” she pointed out. “You would never be able to return. Your estates would be confiscated. You would be homeless.”
“Home,” he said softly, “is where one's heart takes one. Home is just where love is.”
Her eyes, as they met his, were for a moment suspiciously soft. Then she began to talk very quickly of other things, to compare notes of countries which they had both visited, even of people whom they had met. They were obliged to leave early to catch their train. As they passed down the crowded restaurant they once more found themselves within a few feet of Sir Henry. His back was turned to them, and he was apparently ignorant of their near presence. The party had become a partie Carríe, another man, and a still younger and more beautiful woman having joined it.