Philippa held up her hands in horror.

"No more poetry to-night, dear Lady Peters; we have had more than
enough."

"Is that true, Lord Arleigh? Have you really had more than enough?"

"I have not found it so," he replied. "However, I must go. I wish time
would sometimes stand still; all pleasant hours end so soon. Good-night,
Lady Peters."

But that most discreet of _chaperons_ had already re-entered the
drawing-room--it was no part of her business to be present when the two
friends said good-night.

"Good-night, Philippa," he said, in a low, gentle voice, bending over
her.

The wind stirred her perfumed hair until it touched his cheek, the
leaves of the crimson roses fell in a shower around her. She raised her
beautiful pale face to his--the unspeakable love, the yearning sorrow on
it, moved him greatly. He bent down and touched her brow with his lips.

"Good-night, Philippa, my sister--my friend," he said.

Even by the faint starlight he saw a change pass over her face.

"Good-night," she responded. "I have more to say to you, but Lady Peters
will be horrified if you remain any longer. You will call to-morrow, and
then I can finish my conversation?"