“Do not talk to me about books, Norman,” she cried at last.  “Tell me more about yourself; I want to hear more about you.”

She did not notice the slight flush that spread over his face.

“If we are to talk about ourselves,” he said, “I should prefer you to be the subject.  You have grown very beautiful, Philippa.”

His eyes took in every detail of the rich amber costume—­the waving mass of dark hair—­the splendid face, with its scarlet lips and glorious eyes—­the white hands that moved so incessantly.  He owned to himself that in all his travels he had seen nothing like the imperial loveliness of this dark-eyed girl.

“Does it please you to find me what you call beautiful?” she asked, shyly.

“Of course it does.  I am very proud of you—­proud to be known as the cousin of Philippa L’Estrange.”

Nothing more!  Had he nothing more than this to be proud of?  Was he so blind that he could not see love in the girl’s face—­so deaf that he could not hear it in the modulations of her musical voice?  She bent her beautiful face nearer him.

“We were always good friends, Norman,” she said, simply, “you and I?”

“Yes, we were like brother and sister,” he responded, “How we quarreled and made friends!  Do you remember?”

“Yes—­but we were not like brother and sister, Norman.  We did not call each other by such names in those days, did we?”

“I never could find names pretty enough for you,” he replied laughingly.

She raised her eyes suddenly to his.

“You cared for me a great deal in those days, Norman,” she said, gently.  “Tell me the truth—­in your travels have you ever met any one for whom you care more?”

He was perfectly calm and unembarrassed.

“No, cousin, I have not.  As I told you before, I have really made no friends abroad for whom I care much—­a few pleasant acquaintances, nothing more.”

“Then I am content,” she said.

But he was deaf to the passionate music of her voice.  Then the distance between them seemed to grow less.  They talked of her home, Verdun Royal; they talked of Beechgrove, and his plans for living there.  Their conversation was the intimate exchange of thought of old friends; but there was nothing of love.  If she had expected that he would avail himself of Lady Peters’ absence to speak of it, she was mistaken.  He talked of old times, of friendship, of childhood’s days, of great hopes and plans for the future—­of anything but love.  It seemed to be and perhaps was the farthest from his thoughts.

“I am going to Beechgrove in a week,” he said; “you will give me permission to call and see you every day, Philippa?”

“I shall be pleased to see you—­my time is yours,” she answered but he did not understand the full meaning of the words.

Then Lady Peters came in and asked if he would join them at dinner.

“Philippa likes gayety,” she said; “we have never had one quiet evening since the season began; she has a ball for to-night.”