If ever woman's face told a story, hers did--if ever love softened, made more tender and pure any face on earth, it was hers.
After her toilet was complete, she stood for a few minutes looking in her mirror.

The tall, stately figure in the glorious dress was perfect; the face, framed in shining masses of dark hair, was perfect too.
"If I can but win one word from him!" she thought.

"If I can but remind him of those childish days when he used to call me his little wife!" She no sooner made her appearance than, as was usual, she was surrounded by a little court of admirers--the Duke of Mornton first among them.
They little guessed that they owed her complacent reception of their compliments to the fact that she was not even attending to them, but with her whole soul in her eyes was watching for Lord Arleigh's arrival.
The duke even flattered himself that he was making some progress, because at some chance word from him the beautiful face flushed a deep crimson.

How was he to know that Lord Arleigh had at that moment entered the room?
The latter could not help feeling pleased and flattered at the way in which Philippa received him.

He was but mortal, and he could not help seeing the dark eyes shine, the scarlet lips tremble, the whole face soften.