Chapter VIII.
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.
Pages:
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109