t 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