season--that you have slain dukes, earls, marquises, and baronets
indiscriminately. I hear that no one has ever been more popular or more
admired that Philippa L'Estrange. Is it all true?"

"You must find out for yourself," she said, laughingly, half
disappointed that he had laid the spray of lilac down without any
further remark, half disappointed that he should speak in that light,
unconcerned fashion about her conquests; he ought to be jealous, but
evidently he was not.

Then, to her delight, came a summons for Mrs. Peters; she was wanted in
the housekeeper's room.

"Now we are alone," thought Philippa, "he will tell me that he is
pleased to see me. He will remember that he called me his little wife."

But, as Lady Peters closed the door, he took a book from the table, and
asked her what she had been reading lately--which was the book of that
season. She replied to his questions, and to the remarks that followed;
but they were not what she wanted to hear.

"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