"Is it really you?" she cries, touching him gently with one soft, white hand, her dark eyes moist with gladness. "It is really Philip Lockhart," he laughs. "I am _avant-coureur_ for Nella, who will descend upon you to-morrow, bag and baggage, with all the little imps. Will you pardon me, Lady Fairvale, for my impudence in entering by the open window? Your sweet music tempted me." "The pleasure of seeing you so unexpectedly might well condone a greater offense," she answers, smiling. Then she blushes deeply, for the beautiful, dark-blue eyes look down into her own, gravely and thoughtfully. "Thank you," he answers; "I had grave doubts of a welcome, and you set my mind at ease. The truth is I came down with Lord Gordon to Sir William Spencer's for the hunting, and Nella desired me to call and apprise you of her meditated descent upon your fold." She freezes over so suddenly and subtly that he is mystified. "Pray sit down, Colonel Lockhart," with the coolest courtesy. "All this while I have kept you standing." He accepts the offered chair and his altered position brings in range of his sight Mrs. Vance dozing blissfully in a luxurious arm-chair. "My companion," Lady Vera explains. The blue eyes look at her pleadingly, with a half-smile in them. "Pray do not disturb her dreams on my account. I shall be going directly." She sits down listlessly enough on the piano-stool facing him. Some of the first glow of brightness has faded from her face, showing him the subtle change six months has made in it. The once bright cheek is pale and clear, the dark eyes look darker still by contrast with the dark purple shadows lightly outlined beneath them. He marvels, but dares not speak of it. "I am very glad Lady Clive is coming; I have been expecting her some time," she observes. "I thought you were glad to see me at first," he answers, plaintively, "but now you have frozen over again." "You took me by surprise," she replies, with dignity. "I thought you were not coming to England this winter. Lady Clive wrote me something like that." "I did not intend to come; I knew it was wiser to stay away. 'A burnt child dreads the fire' you know. But something drew me against my will. It was like your song, Lady Vera: "'I strove to tear thee from my heart, The effort was in vain; The spell was ever on my life, And I am here again.'" The warm color flies into her face again. The lines recall that night when she had tried to show him her heart, and the caprice of a coquette had come between them. She asks, with irrepressible pique: "Was Miss Montgomery glad to see you?" "Glad? Why should she be?" he asks her, wondering if that strange discord in her voice can really be pique and jealousy. Spite of Lady Vera's pride, it sounds marvelously like it. "She liked you, I thought," she answers, flushing under the steady fire of his eyes.