They had reached the villa by this time, and Philippa was left to her own gloomy reflections. Whether her uncle was in earnest or not, it was quite clear that he had no intention of taking her into his confidence, and it did not occur to her that in the circumstances this might be rather advantageous than otherwise. The least suspicious of mortals, Philippa had not discovered that she was persistently catechised as to Cyril’s future plans and his past history. The art with which the subject was approached and the questions put was such that she had no idea of its existence, nor yet of the fact that her honest answers often caused much irritation to the questioner. Philippa knew nothing of her uncle but what he chose to tell her, together with the deductions drawn by Usk and herself from this evidence, and she could not tell more than she knew. The Princess was particularly curious as to the footing upon which Cyril now stood with Queen Ernestine. Did he keep up any communication with her, or had they parted for ever? Philippa had heard from Mansfield of Prince Mirkovics’s defence of Queen Ernestine, and her prejudices were somewhat modified; but she was still firm in the belief that her uncle had been very badly treated. It was, therefore, not without satisfaction that she informed the Princess of Cyril’s request, on his return from Thracia, that the Queen’s name should not be mentioned in his hearing, and added that, so far as she knew, he was of the same mind still. “And you are all considerate enough to do as he asked?” cried the Princess, with a laugh in which relief mingled with something of pique. “Why, if I were one of his family, and he had made such a request of me, I should have done nothing but tease him to find out what he really felt.” Acting, presumably, upon this principle, the Princess prepared to seek information from the best authority, since Philippa could tell her so little. When she received Cyril that afternoon, she was sad and preoccupied, and smiled only with difficulty. “I fear you have had bad news, madame?” he suggested at last. “Now how did you guess that?” she asked gratefully. “Yes, I have such a painful account of my cousin, Queen Ernestine, from Syria.” Her fingers played carelessly with a letter bearing a Roumi stamp as she spoke. The letter was more than a year old, but Cyril was not supposed to know that. “Her Majesty is ill, madame?” he asked, in precisely the right tone of respectful sympathy. A single glance had shown him that the letter was not black-edged, and there was no fear that any news but the worst would make him betray himself.