“Poor little Phil! I hope it mayn’t be as bad as that.”
“Well, I can’t help it if it is. Please let the King come up here, father, if he will have his answer. It’s a horrid thing to do, but it has got to be done. Would you rather have an ambitious daughter scheming for a throne, or a wicked flirt entangling the affections of poor young men and then casting them aside?”
Lord Caerleon’s smile was troubled as he went down the stairs, and Philippa fairly shivered. She felt miserably that her hands were not clean in the matter, and this unprecedented experience handicapped her seriously as regarded the approaching interview. With the instinct of self-protection, she straightened her tie as she heard footsteps ascending the staircase, tucked away a curl that was straggling over her brow, and did her best to look absolutely unapproachable, and even rather indignant at being subjected to such an ordeal. Her blushes she could not control, however, and King Michael, never a very close observer, may be pardoned for reading in them, when he reached the roof, an encouragement to his suit.
“You have sent for me to tell me that you will share my throne, Lady Phil?” he cried, with genuine delight and admiration in his tones.
Philippa’s downcast eyes were raised suddenly, and met his with an indignant flash. It was this young man’s misfortune that he could never forget his throne. “No, certainly not—just the opposite,” she replied promptly.
“But you—you gave me hope.” The King was angry in his turn.
“That I never did. It isn’t my fault if you took it.”
“But why did you ask for time?”
“I didn’t. You insisted I was not to give an answer at once.”
“Oh, you thought you would make a fool of me, Lady Phil?”