“I always recognize a good man,” put in Lady Peters, “by the great love he bears his mother.”

Lord Arleigh smiled.

“Then you think I am a good man?” he interrogated.  “I hope, Lady Peters, that I shall never forfeit your good opinion.”

“I do not think it likely,” said her ladyship.

Philippa grew impatient on finding his attention turned, even for a few moments, from herself.

“Talk to me, Norman,” she said; “tell me of your travels—­of what you have seen and done—­of the new friends you have made.”

“I have made no new friends, Philippa,” he said; “I love the old ones best.”

He did not understand the triumphant expression of the dark eyes as they glanced at Lady Peters.  He told her briefly of the chief places that he had visited, and then he said: 

“What a quantity of flowers you have, Philippa!  You still retain your old love.”

She took a spray of lilac from one of the vases and held it before him.  Again Lady Peters noted confusion on his face.

“Do you remember the lilac, and what you said about it?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, “I was in Florence last year when they were in flower, and I never looked at the beautiful blooming trees without fancying that I saw my cousin’s face among the blossoms.”

“Why do you call me ‘cousin?’” she asked, impatiently.

He looked up in surprise.

“You are my cousin, are you not, Philippa?”

“I am only your second cousin,” she said; “and you have never called me so before.”

“I have always called you ‘cousin’ in my thoughts,” he declared.  “How remiss I am!” he exclaimed, suddenly.  “You will think that I have forgotten what little manners I had.  I never congratulated you on your success.”

“What success?” she asked, half impatiently.

“I have not been twenty-four hours in London, yet I have heard on all sides of your charms and conquests.  I hear that you are the belle of the season—­that you have slain dukes, earls, marquises, and baronets indiscriminately.  I hear that no one has ever been more popular or more admired that Philippa L’Estrange.  Is it all true?”

“You must find out for yourself,” she said, laughingly, half disappointed that he had laid the spray of lilac down without any further remark, half disappointed that he should speak in that light, unconcerned fashion about her conquests; he ought to be jealous, but evidently he was not.

Then, to her delight, came a summons for Mrs. Peters; she was wanted in the housekeeper’s room.

“Now we are alone,” thought Philippa, “he will tell me that he is pleased to see me.  He will remember that he called me his little wife.”

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.