Her mother was not coming with her to-night; indeed, she seldom wasted the golden evening hours at the opera, when there was a rubber of bridge so certainly at her command, and Madge went into the drawing-room to wish her good-night before she set off. Prosperity--and the last three weeks seemed to Lady Ellington to be most prosperous--had always a softening effect on her, and she was particularly gracious to her daughter, since Madge was responsible for so large a part of these auspicious events. "So you're just off, dear," she said. "Dear me, you are rather late, and I mustn't keep you. But give my love to Philip, and let him see you home, and if I am in--you can ask them at the door--bring him in for a few minutes. And don't forget your sitting with Mr. Dundas to-morrow." "Ah, I have put that off," said Madge, "I am rather busy!" "A pity, surely." "Well, I have sent the note, I am afraid. Good-night, mother, in case I am in first." Philip had already arrived when she got to her cousin's house, and they went down to dinner. Lord Ellington had got the news of the evening feverishly mixed up in his head, and was disposed to mingle fragments of Stock Exchange with it, forgetful, apparently, that this had been relegated to his wife. But his natural incoherence redeemed the situation, and when dinner was over it was already time to start for the opera. While Gladys got her cloak, however, the two lovers had a few private minutes, as the master of the house remained in the dining-room when they went out. Philip had sent her that day a diamond pendant which she was wearing now. "It is too good of you, Philip," she said, "and I can't tell you how I value it. It is most beautiful. But why should you always be sending me things?" Philip was usually serious, and always sincere. "Because I can't help it," he said. "I must give you signs of what I feel, and even these clumsy, material signs are something." That sincerity touched the girl. "I know what you feel," she said. "I want to have it never absent from my mind. I want to think of nothing else but that." This was sincere too, the outcome of this long day of thought. But Philip came a little closer to her, and his voice vibrated as he spoke. "That contents me utterly," he said--"that and the gift of yourself that you made me." She gave a long sigh. "Oh, Philip!" she began. But the voice of Gladys called to her from the passage outside the drawing-room. "Come, Madge. Come, Mr. Home," she cried. "We are already so late, and I can't bear to miss a note of _Bohême_."