"Is it not beautiful?" she said.
"Yes, beautiful, but ideal; few women, I think, would equal this poet's
queen."
"You do not know--you cannot tell, Norman. I think any woman who loves,
and loves truly, becomes a queen."
He looked at her, wondering at the passion in her voice--wondering at
the expression on her beautiful face.
"You are incredulous," she said; "but it is true. Love is woman's
dominion; let her but once enter it, and she becomes a queen; her heart
and soul grow grander, the light of love crowns her. It is the real
diadem of womanhood, Norman; she knows no other."
He drew back startled; her words seemed to rouse him into sudden
consciousness. She was quick enough to see it, and, with the _distrait_
manner of a true woman of the world, quickly changed the subject. She
asked some trifling question about Beechgrove, and then said, suddenly:
"I should like to see that fine old place of yours, Norman. I was only
ten when mamma took me there the last time; that was rather too young to
appreciate its treasures. I should like to see it again."
"I hope you will see it, Philippa; I have many curiosities to show you.
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