“Yes,” laughed the heiress; “the world is very sweet to me just now, Norman; but I will give up my ball and stay at home purposely to sing to you, if you will dine with us.”

“That is a temptation I cannot resist,” he returned.  “I will come.  All your disappointed partners will, however, vent their wrath on me, Philippa.”

“I can bear it,” she said, “and so can you.  Now I can let you go more willingly, seeing that I shall soon see you again.”

And then he went away.  After he had gone she spoke but little; once she clasped her arms round Lady Peters’ neck and kissed the kindly face.

“Do not speak to me,” she said, “lest I should lose the echo of his voice;” and Lady Peters watched her anxiously, as she stood with a rapt smile on her face, as of one who has heard celestial music in a dream.

* * * * *

The Arleighs of Beechgrove had for many generations been one of the wealthiest as well as one of the noblest families in England.  To Norman, Lord Arleigh, who had succeeded his father at the early age of twenty, all this good gift of fame, fortune, and wealth had now fallen.  He had inherited also the far-famed Arleigh beauty.  He had clear-cut features, a fair skin, a fine manly frame, a broad chest, and erect, military bearing; he had dark hair and eyes, with straight, clear brows, and a fine, handsome mouth, shaded by a dark mustache Looking at him it was easy to understand his character.  There was pride in the dark eyes, in the handsome face, in the high-bred manner and bearing, but not of a common kind.

In accordance with his late father’s wish, he had gone through the usual course of studies.  He had been to Eton and to Oxford; he had made the usual continental tour; and now he had returned to live as the Arleighs had done before him—­a king on his own estate.  There was just one thing in his life that had not pleased him.  His mother, Lady Arleigh, had always evinced the greatest affection for her cousin, the gentle Lady L’Estrange.  She had paid long visits to Verdun Royal, always taking her son with her; and his earliest recollection was of his mother and Lady L’Estrange sitting side by side planning the marriage of their two children, Philippa and Norman.  He could remember many of his mother’s pet phrases—­“So suitable,” “A perfect marriage,” “The desire of my heart.”  All his mother’s thoughts and ideas seemed to begin and end there.  He had been taught, half seriously, half in jest, to call Philippa his little wife, to pay her every attention, to present her with jewels and with flowers, to make her his chief study.  While be was still a boy he had only laughed at it.