It seemed quite useless to resist her.  She had a true siren power of fascination.  The next minute saw him seated in the cool, shady boudoir, where the mellow light came in, rose-filtered through the silken blinds, and the perfumed air was sweet.  Lady Peters, full of solicitude, was there, with the iced claret cup, thinking he was tired and-warm.  It was so like home that he could not help feeling happy.

Presently Lady Peters retired for a few minutes, and in came Philippa.  She had changed her riding-costume for a white silk neglige that fell round her in loose, graceful folds.  She wore no flowers, jewels, or ribbons, but the dark masses of her hair were unfastened, and hung round the white neck; there was a warm, bright flush on her face, with the least touch of languor in her manner.  She threw herself back in her lounging chair, saying, with a dreamy smile: 

“You see that I make no stranger of you, Norman.”

From beneath the white silken folds peeped a tiny embroidered slipper; a jeweled fan lay near her, and with it she gently stirred the perfumed air.  He watched her with admiring eyes.

“You look like a picture that I have seen, Philippa,” he said.

“What picture?” she asked, with a smile.

“I cannot tell you, but I am quite sure I have seen one like you.  What picture would you care to resemble?”

A sudden gleam of light came into her dark eyes.

“The one underneath which you would write ‘My Queen,’” she said, hurriedly.

He did not understand.

“I think every one with an eye to beauty would call you ‘queen,’” he observed, lightly.  The graver meaning of her speech had quite escaped him.

Then Lady Peters returned, and the conversation changed.

“We are going to hear an opera-bouffe to-night,” said Philippa, when Lord Arleigh was leaving.  “Will you come and be our escort?”

“You will have a box filled with noisy chatterers the whole night,” he remarked, laughingly.

“They shall all make room for you, Norman, if you will come,” she said.  “It is ‘La Grande Duchesse,’ with the far-famed Madame Schneider as her Grace of Gerolstein.”

“I have not heard it yet,” returned Lord Arleigh.  “I cannot say that I have any great admiration for that school of music, but, if you wish it, I will go, Philippa.

“It will increase my enjoyment a hundredfold,” she said, gently, “if you go.”

“How can I refuse when you say that?  I will be here punctually,” he promised; and again the thought crossed his mind how true she was to her old friends—­how indifferent to new ones!

On that evening Philippa changed her customery style of dress—­it was no longer the favorite amber, so rich in hue and in texture, but white, gleaming silk, relieved by dashes of crimson.  A more artistic or beautiful dress could not have been designed.  She wore crimson roses in her dark hair, and a cluster of crimson roses on her white breast.  Her bouquet was of the same odorous flowers.  In the theater Lord Arleigh noticed that Philippa attracted more attention than any one else, even though the house was crowded; he saw opera-glasses turned constantly toward her beautiful face.