"I have just discarded the twentieth, Bel," she adds, laughing; "he got on his knees."
And Philippa laughs heartily.
Jacques is used to his companion's manner of talking, and says:
"Who was it, pray, madam—Mowbray?"
A flush passes over Philippa's face, and she looks away, murmuring "No!"
"I won't go over the list of your admirers," continues Jacques, sadly, "they are too numerous; for who can wonder at such a fairy face as yours attracting crowds of lovers?"
"My fairy face? Yes, and my unhappy wealth, sir. I wish I was poor! I can never know when I am loved truly. Oh, to know that!"
And a shadow passes over the face, obliterating the satire, and veiling the brilliant eyes. Then with an effort Philippa drives away her preoccupation, and says:
"I wish Heaven had made me a man!"
"A man?" says Jacques.