"You are enthusiastic," said Lord Arleigh, wondering at the light on the
splendid face.

"Nay, I am constant," she rejoined.

And for a few minutes after that silence reigned between them. Philippa
was the first to break it.

"Do you remember," she asked, "that you used to praise my voice, and
prophesy that I should sing well?"

"Yes, I remember," he replied.

"I have worked hard at my music," she continued, "in the hope of
pleasing you."

"In the hope of pleasing me?" he interrogated. "It was kind to think so
much of me."

"Of whom should I think, if not of you?" she inquired.

There were both love and reproach in her voice--he heard neither. Had he
been as vain as he was proud, he would have been quicker to detect her
love for himself.

The windows had been opened because the evening air was so clear and
sweet; it came in now, and seemed to give the flowers a sweeter
fragrance. Lord Arleigh drew his chair to the piano.

"I want you only to listen," she said. "You will have no turning over to