Lord Arleigh raised his hat from his brow and stood for a few minutes bareheaded in the starlight.

He felt like a man who had been in the stifling atmosphere of a conservatory; warmth and perfume had dazed him.
How beautiful Philippa was--how bewildering! What a nameless wondrous charm there was about her! No wonder that half London was at her feet, and that her smiles were eagerly sought.

He was not the least in love with her; admiration, homage, liking, but not love--anything but that--filled him; yet he dreamed of her, thought of her, compared her face with others that he had seen--all simply because her beauty had dazed him.
"I can believe now in the sirens of old," he said to himself; "they must have had just such dark, glowing eyes, such rich, sweet voices and beautiful faces.

I should pity the man who hopelessly loved Philippa L'Estrange.

And, if she ever loves any one, it will be easy for her to win; who could resist her ?" How little he dreamed that the whole passionate love of her heart was given to himself--that to win from him one word of love, a single token of affection, she would have given all that she had in the world.
On the day following he received a note; it said simply: "Dear Norman: Can you join me in a ride?
I have a new horse which they tell me is too spirited.