times each day.  She was no coquette, no flirt, yet she knew she had but to smile on a man to bring him at once to her feet; she had but to make the most trifling advance, and she could do what she would.  The Duke of Mornton had twice repeated his offer of marriage—­she had refused him.  The Marquis of Langland, the great match of the day, had made her an offer, which she had declined.  The Italian Prince Cetti would have given his possessions to take her back with him to his own sunny land, but she had refused to go.  No woman in England had had better offers of marriage; but she had refused them all.  How was it that, when others sighed so deeply and vainly at her feet, Lord Arleigh alone stood aloof?

Of what use were her beauty, wit, grace, wealth, and talent, if she could not win him?  For the first time she became solicitous about her beauty, comparing it with that of other women, always being compelled, in the end, to own that she excelled.  If Lord Arleigh talked, or danced, or showed attention to any lady, she would critically examine her claim to interest, whether she was beautiful, mentally gifted, graceful.  But Philippa detected another thing—­if Lord Arleigh did not love her, it was at least certain that he loved no one else.

The whole world was spoiled for her because she had not this man’s love.  She desired it.  Her beauty, her wealth, her talents, her grace, were all as nothing, because with them she could not win him.  Then, again, she asked herself, could it be that she could not win him?  What had men told her?  That her beauty was irresistible.  It might be that he did care for her, that he intended to carry out his mother’s favorite scheme, but that he was in no hurry, that he wanted her and himself to see plenty of life first.  It was easier, after all, to believe that than to think that she had completely failed to win him.  She would be quite satisfied if it were so, although it was certainly not flattering to her that he should be willing to wait so long; but, if he would only speak—­if he would only say the few words that would set her mind quite at ease—­she would be content.

Why did he not love her?  She was fair, young, endowed with great gifts; she had wealth, position; she had the claim upon him that his mother and hers had wished the alliance.  Why did she fail? why did he not love her?  It seemed to her that she was the one person in all the world to whom he would naturally turn—­that, above all others, he would select her for his wife; yet he did not evince the least idea of so doing.  Why was it?

Twice that night when he had so frankly told her his ideas about women, she had been most careful, most reserved.

“If he likes reserve and indifference,” she said to herself, “he shall have plenty of it.”  Yet it was at the same time so mixed with kindness, with thoughtful consideration for him, that the wonder was he did not succumb.  “I must find out,” she said to herself, “whether he does really care for me.”  How to do so she did not quite know—­but woman’s wits are proverbially keen.