She would not be displeased--on the
contrary, she would like his advice; it might even be that before now
she had wished to ask for it, but had not liked to do so--so completely
did these two play at cross-purposes and misunderstand each other.
It was easier to say to himself that he would speak to her as the duke
wished than to do it. He saw that any allusion to her lovers or admirers
made her ill at ease--she did not like it; even his laughing comments on
the homage paid to her did not please her.
"I do not like lovers," she said to him one day, "and I am tired of
admirers--I prefer friends."
"But," he opposed, laughingly, "if all that wise men and philosophers[2]
tell us is correct, there are no true friends."
He never forgot the light that shone in her face as she raised it to
his.
"I do not believe that," she returned; "there are true friends--you are
one to me."
The tenderness of her manner struck him forcibly. Something kinder and
softer stirred in his heart than had ever stirred before for her; he
raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.
"You are right, Philippa" he said.
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