“He’s made a lot of money over this last novel of his,” remarked Mayne, a little brutally. “Yes. Doesn’t that _show_ that the world is waiting for a message? The poor sad world that longs to be shown the beauty it is missing.” “I hadn’t noticed it,” returned Mayne. “But then I haven’t seen much of the paying world lately.” “One must have faith,” said Philippa, softly. “The faith that removes mountains.” “And brings in the shekels,” laughed Mayne. “Kingslake’s has been justified, anyway. I’m going down there next week,” he added, for the sake of changing the rarefied atmosphere of the conversation. “To Sheepcote, you know, with the Kingslakes.” “Yes, so Mr. Macdonald told me--Mr. Kingslake, I mean. I knew his work first through his _nom de guerre_, and I can scarcely think of him yet as Mr. Kingslake. We shall meet again, then,” she went on. “I’m going to Sheepcote too.” “What’s that?” asked Lady Wilmot, who, as Mayne rightly surmised, had been keeping one amused ear upon the conversation, while she failed to listen to Mr. Nevern with the other. “What’s that? _You_ going down to Sheepcote, Philippa? What for?” “So strange!” returned Philippa, absolutely undisconcerted by the brusque impertinence of the question, and she recounted the information she had written to Cecily. “And do you know, dear Lady Wilmot, that I went to school with Mrs. Kingslake--Cecily Merivale? Wasn’t it a charming discovery to make? I’m longing to meet her again. Dear Cecily! I haven’t seen her since she was about seventeen. She was _so_ pretty.” “Well, if it’s her looks you care about, you’ll be disappointed. She’s lost them. I’ve no patience with a woman who loses her looks. It’s so careless.” “But, dear Lady Wilmot,” began Philippa, with a tender smile, “after all, do looks matter?” “Don’t be a humbug, my dear. You know they do,” returned her hostess with finality. Mayne rose. “Don’t go, I haven’t spoken to you,” Lady Wilmot commanded. “Now, Mr. Nevern, you can talk to Philippa. So you are going to stay with the Kingslakes?” “Kingslake asked me to go down--yes.” “I thought you and he were not the best of friends?” Mayne shrugged his shoulders with a smile. “I have no recollection of any quarrel.” “_Quarrel?_ No, but----” She paused. It was difficult even for Lady Wilmot to continue, before the impassivity of his face. “I’m sorry Cecily is not looking well,” he said, deliberately mentioning the name he knew trembled on her tongue. “Diana told me. I went to see her yesterday. _Diana’s_ grown,” he added, with a broad smile. “Grown up. How do you like Philippa?” she inquired, in a slightly lower tone, as she walked with him to the door. “There are questions of yours which I have always resolutely refused to answer.” Lady Wilmot laughed with evident enjoyment. “You felt what a little boy feels when some one sings a hymn in the drawing-room on week-days,” she declared. “Turn round. She’s telling Nevern what a beautiful soul he’s got.”