Lady Peters looked anxiously at her.

“There was no regular engagement between you and Lord Arleigh, was there, Philippa?”

“What do you call a regular engagement?” said the young heiress.  “He never made love to me, if that is what you mean—­he never asked me to be his wife; but it was understood—­always understood.”

“By whom?” asked Lady Peters.

“My mother and his.  When Lady Arleigh lived, she spent a great deal of time at Verdun Royal with my mother; they were first cousins, and the dearest of friends.  Hundreds of times I have seen them sitting on the lawn, while Norman and I played together.  Then they were always talking about the time we should be married.  ’Philippa will make a beautiful Lady Arleigh,’ his mother used to say.  ’Norman, go and play with your little wife,’ she would add; and with all the gravity of a grown courtier, he would bow before me and call me his little wife.”

“But you were children then, and it was perhaps all childish folly.”

“It was nothing of the kind,” said the heiress, angrily.  “I remember well that, when I was presented, my mother said to me, ’Philippa, you are sure to be very much admired; but remember, I consider you engaged to Norman.  Your lot in life is settled; you are to be Lady Arleigh of Beechgrove.’”

“But,” interposed Lady Peters, “it seems to me, Philippa, that this was all your mother’s fancy.  Because you played together as children—­because, when you were a child he called you his little wife—­because your mother and his were dear friends, and liked the arrangement—­it does not follow that he would like it, or that he would choose the playmate of his childhood as the love of his manhood.  In all that you have said to me, I see no evidence that he loves you, or that he considers himself in any way bound to you.”

“That is because you do not understand.  He has been in England only two days, yet, you see, he comes to visit me.”

“That may be for old friendship’s sake,” said Lady Peters.  “Oh, my darling, be careful!  Do not give the love of your heart and soul for nothing.”

“It is given already,” confessed the girl, “and can never be recalled, no matter what I get in return.  Why, it is twenty minutes past three; do you think he will come?”

Philippa L’Estrange rose from the couch and went to the long open window.

“I have never seen the sun shine so brightly before,” she said; and Lady Peters sighed as she listened.  “The world has never looked so beautiful as it does to-day.  Oh, Norman, make, haste!  I am longing to see you.”

She had a quaint, pretty fashion of calling Lady Peters by the French appellation maman.  She turned to her now, with a charming smile.  She shook out the perfumed folds of her dress—­she smoothed the fine white lace.

“You have not told me, maman,” she said, “whether I am looking my best to-day.  I want Norman to be a little surprised when he sees me.  If you saw me for the first time to-day, would you think me nice?”