"You are fond of luxury?"

"Yes, madam."

"Horses, wines, carriages?"

"Excuse me--no."

"What then?"

"The luxury of seeing my orphan sister surrounded with every comfort."

A flush pa.s.sed over Philippa's face, and she turned away; but she was not satisfied.

"There is a very plain and easy way to arrive at wealth, sir," she said; "law is so slow."

"Please indicate it."

"Marry an heiress."

There was a silence after these words; and Philippa could scarcely sustain the clear fixed look which he bent upon her face.

"Is that your advice, madam?" he said coldly. "I thank you for it."

His tone piqued her.

"Then follow it," she said.

"Excuse me again."

"Is it not friendly?"

"Possibly, but not to my taste."

"Why, sir?"

"First, because the course you suggest is not very honorable; secondly, and in another aspect, it is very disgraceful; again, it is too expensive, if I may be permitted to utter what seems to be, but is not, a very rude and cynical speech."

"Not honorable--disgraceful--too expensive! Indeed! Why, sir, you at once exclude heiresses from matrimony."

"Not so, madam."

"Not honorable!"

"I think it is not honorable to acquire wealth, for the best purpose in the world, by giving the hand and not the heart."

"The hand and the heart!--who speaks of heart in these days? But you say it is even disgraceful to marry an heiress."

"Not at all; but if a man does not love a woman, is it not disgraceful in the full sense of that word, madam, to unite himself to her, or rather to her money bags, only that he may procure the means of living in luxury, and gratifying his expensive tastes and vices?"

"If he does not _love_ her, you say. _Love!_ that is a very pretty word, and rhymes, I believe, to _dove_! Well, sir, you have endeavored to establish your point by the aid of two delightful phrases, 'the hand and not the _heart_'--'the man who does not _love_ a woman'--beautiful words, only I don't believe in them. Now be good enough to explain your third point:--how is it too 'expensive' to marry a wealthy woman? I know you gentlemen at the college are inveterate logicians, and find little difficulty in proving that twice two's five, and that black is irreproachable white--that fire is cold--ice, hot--smoke, heavy--and lead light as thistle-down. Still I imagine you will find it difficult to show that 'tis _expensive_ to marry, let us say, fifty thousand pounds a year!"

Mowbray looked at her face a moment, and sighed; a great hope seemed to be leaving him; when he spoke, it was with manifest repugnance.

"Let us dismiss this singular subject, madam," he said calmly; "I spoke too thoughtlessly. See that lovely humming-bird around the honeysuckle, searching in vain for honey."

"As I do for your reasons, sir," said Philippa curtly.

"My reasons?"

"You refuse to explain----"

"Well, well--I see you will compel me to speak. Well, madam, my meaning is very simple. When I say that it is too 'expensive' to unite oneself to a woman solely because that woman has for her portion a great fortune, a large income, every luxury and elegance to endow her husband with--I mean simply that if this woman be uncongenial, if her husband care nothing for her, only her fortune, then that he will necessarily be unhappy, and that unhappiness is cheaply bought with millions. Money only goes a certain way--tell me when it bought a heart! Mine, madam, it will never buy at least--if you will permit me to utter a sentence in such bad taste. And now let us abandon this discussion, which leads us into such serious moods."

She turned away, and looked through the window.

Two birds were playfully contending in the air, and filling the groves with their joyous carolling.

"How free they are!" she murmured.

"The birds? Yes, madam, they live in delightful liberty, as we of America will, I trust, some day."

"I wonder if they're married," said Philippa laughing, and refusing to enter upon the wrongs of England toward the colonies; "they are fighting, I believe, and thus I presume they are united in marriage--by some parson Crow!"

Mowbray only smiled slightly, and looked at his watch.

"What! not going!" cried Philippa.

"Pardon," he said; "I just rode out for an hour. We have a lecture in half an hour."

"And you prefer the excellent Dr. Small or some other reverend gentleman to myself--the collegiate to the sylvan, the male to the female lecturer?"

He smiled wearily.

"Our duties are becoming more exacting," he said; "the examination is approaching."

"I should suppose so--you have not been to see me for a whole week."

A flush pa.s.sed over Mowbray's brow; then it became as pale as before.

"Our acquaintance has not been an extended one," he said; "I could not intrude upon your society."

"Intrude!"

And abandoning completely her laughing cynical manner, Philippa gave him a look which made him tremble. Why was that excitement? Because he thought he had fathomed her; because he had convinced himself that she was a coquette, amusing herself at his expense; because he saw all his dreams, his illusions, his hopes pa.s.s away with the fleeting minutes.

He replied simply:

"Yes, madam--even now I fear I am trespa.s.sing upon your time; you probably await my departure to betake yourself to your morning's amus.e.m.e.nt. I was foolish enough to imagine that I had not completely lost my powers of conversation, buried as I have been in books. I was mistaken--I no longer jest--I am a poor companion. Then," he added, "we are so uncongenial--at least this morning. I will come some day when I am gay, and you sad--then we shall probably approximate in _mood_, and until then farewell."

She would have detained him; "Don't go!" was on her lips; but at the moment when Mowbray bowed low, a shout of laughter was heard in the pa.s.sage, and three persons entered--Jacques, Belle-bouche, and Sir Asinus.