Dorriford, but in the sunny souththat Philippa met again the friend she had already learnt to prize.
"You are changed, Philippa," said her cousin, the first morning whenthey were strolling about in the pretty garden of the Lermonts' villa."Changed somehow, though I scarcely can say how."
"Am I?" said the girl, "and yet it is only six months, barely thatindeed, since you saw me last."
But she _was_ changed, and the consciousness of it made her colourdeepen, even though she knew how much more cause for her remark Maidawould have had, had they met before Philippa's winter in Italy.
"I know, that is what makes me notice it the more. One expects to seechange at your age after an interval of a year or two--I counted youscarcely grown-up when you came to us last year. But in six months!No, I can't quite make it out."
"What is it?" said Philippa, lightly. "Am I fatter, or thinner, orpaler, or what?"
Miss Lermont looked at her scrutinisingly, which did not tend toincrease the young girl's composure.
"No," said the elder woman at last, "it is not in that sort of way somuch--though you _are_ thinner, rather thinner, and perhaps a littlepaler. Nevertheless you have grown still--prettier," checking herselfin the use of a more imposing adjective. "I am not afraid of tellingyou so, as I know you are not the _least_ conceited. But you havechanged otherwise. You are not _quite_ as bright and self-reliant asyou were--you look anxious every now and then, and sometimes you arerather absent. Tell me, my dear child, have you fallen in love with anyone?"
It was the greatest relief to Philippa that Maida's kindlycross-questioning should have turned in this direction. For even if sheherself had thought it well to take Miss Lermont into her confidence asto her adventures, she was not free to do so, Mrs Raynsworth havingbound her down to tell no one the story without first consultingherself. The laugh, therefore, with which the young girl prefaced herreply was quite natural and unconstrained.
"No indeed," she said, "I can't fancy myself falling in love with anyone unless I were very sure that the person in question had first fallenvery thoroughly in love with me. And--I can scarcely picture such astate of things as that."
"Naturally," said Miss Lermont. "I don't think any girl--not a girlsuch as you are, at least, dear Philippa--_can_ picture it till it comesto pass."
Philippa hesitated.
"I mean more than that," she said. "I do not feel as if I were the sortof girl a man is likely to care for in that way. I am not--oh, notyielding, and appealing, and all that sort of thing. There is somethingof a boy about me. Long ago, when I was a tiny girl, the nurses used totell me I had no `pretty ways.'" Maida could not help smiling atPhilippa's self-deprecation. But as the girl looked down at her--MissLermont was by this time established in her invalid-chair, her cousinstanding beside her--with a certain wistfulness in her expression, itstruck the elder woman still more strongly that Philippa _was_ changed,softened and somewhat saddened. Her present estimate of herself was farless correct now than a few months ago. "You forget," Maida replied,"that tastes differ as to human beings' attraction for each other,luckily for the peace of society, more widely than in any otherdirection. It is not every man, by any means, whose ideal woman is ofthe type which _you_ evidently think the most winning. But all thesame, my dear child, you are much more--`womanly,' shall I say?--lessself-confident and gentler than you were at Dorriford. _Something_ haschanged you. Don't you feel conscious of it yourself?"
"Growing older perhaps," said Philippa, trying to speak lightly. But itwas impossible for her to be anything but genuine with Maida. "No," shecontinued, with a sudden alteration of voice, "I will not talk nonsense.I know that I have changed; you are very quick and discriminating tohave found it out, and I wish I could tell you all about it. But Icannot, not at present at any rate. So don't let us talk any more aboutit. I do want to enjoy this delightful place and weather and _you_ tothe very utmost."
She sat down beside her cousin and looked at her with what she meant tobe a perfectly happy smile. But somewhat to Maida's surprise the prettymouth was quivering a little, and there was a suspicious glistening inthe deep brown eyes.
"My dear child!" Maida exclaimed, impulsively, her anxiety increasing."Can you not--"
"No, dear," Philippa replied to the uncompleted inquiry, "I cannotexplain anything. But there is nothing to be anxious about--reallynothing."
"Only tell me," Miss Lermont persisted, "this trouble, whatever it is,or--"
"It is quite over," said Philippa.
"Or has been, then--have you had to keep it altogether to yourself?Have you been unable to confide in any one?"
"Oh, no," Philippa replied. "They all--at least Evey and papa andmamma--knew about it, and _mamma_ knows everything, yes, _everything_.And if she had known I was to be with you, here, I daresay she wouldhave wished me to tell you; at least I think she would have done, but--but--I am not quite sure. After all, it isn't anything very dreadful,only it opened my eyes to my own self-will and presumption, and I don'tfeel as if I ever could trust myself again."
"Poor dear," said Maida, tenderly. "Remember it is not the `thinking westand' that keeps us from falls. I am quite happy now I know that yourmother knows it all, and whether you ever tell me the whole or not is amatter of no consequence. Put it out of your head, dear, and let usenjoy this treat--for a treat it is to _me_."
"And most certainly to me, too," said her cousin, affectionately. "Ihad no idea Cannes was so charming, Maida."
"It has been an exceptionally good winter, even for Cannes," said MissLermont. "Lots of people we know have been here. Almost too manysometimes, as I am so stupidly easily knocked up and mother has bustleenough at home all the year round. Now, the visitors are dropping off alittle, but we know a good many of the so-called residents. That is tosay, the people who have permanent houses here which they inhabit forfour or five months of the year. By-the-by, Philippa, did you not seethe Bertrams when you were at Dorriford?"
"Yes," Philippa replied, "I did. But they are not here?"
There was the slightest possible--so slight that at the time MissLermont thought her ears must have misled her--inflection of anxiety inthe girl's tone as she made the inquiry.
"Here--yes indeed, very much here," Maida replied. "Captain Bertram andLady Mary, and all the five children, and an army of governesses, andnurses, and maids, and horses, and grooms. They are very rich, youknow. And they have had friends visiting them or coming to be nearthem, all the time, several of whom we knew, so that has helped toextend our acquaintance here. Oh, yes, by-the-by, that Mr Gresham,`the silent man,' as we called him, is staying with them now. He hasjust arrived; do you remember him one day at Dorriford? I had forgottenabout it, but he asked me when he called with Lady Mary, if I had heardfrom you lately, and--"
Philippa interrupted her.
"Evelyn and Duke have been staying with him," she said, speaking withstudied deliberateness; "that must have reminded him of me, as Evey isfar too fond of talking about me."
She did not turn away as she spoke, and her whole manner was peculiarlycalm, but to Miss Lermont's amazement the colour surged up into hercheeks, leaving them again as suddenly--she herself apparentlyunconscious, or determined to appear unconscious, that it was so.
Maida felt completely taken aback. She was not of an inquisitive frameof mind, and was eminently unsuspicious when she had once learnt to giveher confidence. But she was very observant by nature, and as has beenalready mentioned, in her peculiar, semi-invalid life, the post ofspectator had often fallen to her, and she had come to feel greatinterest in the affairs of her neighbours--interest which in an inferiorclass of mind might have degenerated into love of gossip. And aware ofthis danger, Miss Lermont was specially careful to keep her concern for"other people's business" well within bounds, even where conscious thatreal affection and sympathy prompted her.
So for a moment or two she hesitated before putting to Philippa thequestion that most naturally rose to her lips. Then
an instant'sreflection showed her that the refraining from so simple an inquirywould of itself suggest some possibly annoying suspicion.
"Have you never seen him again, then? Somehow his manner seemed toimply that he knew more of you than that one afternoon's introduction,when he did _not_ distinguish himself by either `feast of reason or flowof soul.'"
Before Philippa replied, her cousin _felt_ that she hesitated. Yetnothing could be more straightforward than her reply when it came.
"I have never met Mr Gresham since that day at Dorriford," and
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