Philippa is a lady of nineteen or twenty, with the air of a duchess and the walk of an antelope. Her brilliant eyes, as black as night, and as clear as a sunny stream, are full of life, vivacity and mischief; she seems to be laughing at life, and love, and gallantry, and all the complimentary nothings of society, from the height of her superior intellect, and with undazzled eyes. She is clad even more richly than Belle-bouche, for Philippa is an heiress--the mistress of untold farms--or plantations as they then said;--miles of James River "low grounds" and uncounted Africans. Like the Duke of Burgundy's, her sovereignty is acknowledged in three languages--the English, the African or Moorish, and the Indian: for the Indian settlement on the south side calls her mistress, and sends to her for blankets in the winter. In the summer it is not necessary to ask for the produce of her estate, such as they desire--they appropriate it. Philippa is a cousin of Belle-bouche; and Belle-bouche is the niece of Aunt Wimple, who is mistress of the Shadynook domain. Philippa has guardians, but it cannot be said they direct her movements. They have given up that task in despair, some years since, and only hope that from the numerous cormorants always hovering around her, she may select one not wholly insatiable--with some craw of mercy. "There, you are talking about flowers, I lay a wager," she says, returning the bow of Jacques, and laughing. "I was speaking neither of yourself nor the fair Belinda," replies Jacques, with melancholy gallantry. "There! please have done with compliments--I detest them." "You detest every thing insincere, I know, charming Philippa--pardon me, but your beautiful name betrays me constantly. Is it not--like your voice--stolen from poetry or music?" "Ah, sir, you are insufferable." "Pardon, pardon--but in this beautiful and fair season, so full of flowers----" "You think it necessary to employ flowers of speech: that is what you were going to say, but for heaven's sake have done." Jacques bows. "I have just discarded the twentieth, Bel," she adds, laughing; "he got on his knees." And Philippa laughs heartily. Jacques is used to his companion's manner of talking, and says: "Who was it, pray, madam--Mowbray?" A flush passes over Philippa's face, and she looks away, murmuring "No!" "I won't go over the list of your admirers," continues Jacques, sadly, "they are too numerous; for who can wonder at such a fairy face as yours attracting crowds of lovers?" "My fairy face? Yes, and my unhappy wealth, sir. I wish I was poor! I can never know when I am loved truly. Oh, to know that!" And a shadow passes over the face, obliterating the satire, and veiling the brilliant eyes. Then with an effort Philippa drives away her preoccupation, and says: "I wish Heaven had made me a man!" "A man?" says Jacques. "Yes, sir."