shall be the first one that I may call mine?"
"Choose for yourself, my lord," said Mildred, in her most demure way.
"Seven is a lucky number, may I have number seven?"
"Yes, I'll save that for you," and, with a laughing glance over her shoulder, she ran away.
"What a little witch she is, to be sure, eh?" and Earl Clarence gave a short laugh.
"I beg your pardon if I offend," I said, a little stiffly; "but I think you,—that is we,—ought to remember that she is pledged to Philip."
"Ah, I did not know it was announced."
"Nor is it, officially. But in this country, we accept such a situation, without words,—if we are friendly with the people concerned."
"Indeed!" was the cool response; "but the men of my country have their own code of honor, and it is not to be impugned."
This was a fine opening for a quarrel, but as I had no intention of indulging in a dispute with our titled visitor, I said only, "I have no criticism to make of the English code of honor,—I'm sure!" and turning on my heel, I left his lordship among the yellow roses.
Soon after, standing in the lower hall, I watched Mildred Leslie come dancing down the stairs. She wore a short dancing gown of palest yellow chiffon, and in her shining curls nestled the tiny yellow roses. It was an unusual color for a pronounced blonde to wear, but it suited her dainty beauty, and she looked like a spring daffodil.
Of course she was immediately surrounded by would-be partners, but Philip Maxwell was not among them.
"Sulky," said naughty Mildred, as I asked her where he was. "Well, it will do him good to worry a little."
As was usually the case, pretty Mildred was the belle of the ball.
She halved most of her dances, and changed her mind so frequently about her partners that she soon tore up her program, declaring it bothered her, and she should accept invitations only as each dance began.
She finished the sixth dance with me, and as we sauntered about after the music ceased, we met Philip apparently looking for her.
"The next dance is ours," he said looking at her in an unsmiling way.
"Indeed it isn't!" declared Mildred, who had by no means forgotten to whom she had promised the seventh dance.
"It is," said Philip sternly, "come!"
"Better go," I whispered in Mildred's ear; "he's in an awful huff!"
Meekly she allowed herself to be led away, and Philip took her out on the veranda.
"Now," he said, as they passed out of hearing, "with whom are you going to dance this next dance, with me or with that confounded foreigner?"
"With him, Philip," said Mildred, very quietly. "I promised it to him before the party began."
I was thoroughly angry at the little coquette, and I turned away and strolled idly through the rooms. I did not feel like dancing, for the moment; and seeing Miss Maxwell, sitting alone in a corner of the drawing-room, I went and sat by her for a few moments' chat.
She seemed preoccupied, and after some perfunctory answers to my trivial remarks, she said:
"Peter"—she always called me by my first name, and somehow her soft, sweet voice gave the ugly word a pleasant sound—"there is something wrong with Philip. I can't imagine what it is, but for a week or more he has been so different. It began all at once.
"One day last week he came to luncheon looking so harassed and worried that my heart ached for him. I said nothing about it—we are not confidential as a family, you know—I only tried to be especially gentle and tender toward him. But he didn't get over it. He spoke sharply to his uncle, he failed to show his usual deferential courtesy to me, and he behaved altogether like a man stunned and bewildered by some sudden misfortune.
"I talked to his uncle about it when we were alone, and he, too, had noticed it, but could not account for it in any way. He though perhaps it might be money difficulties of some sort, and he offered to increase Philip's allowance. But Philip refused to accept an increase, and said he had no debts and plenty of spending money. So we are at our wits' end to understand it."
"Could it have anything to do with Miss Leslie?" I asked.
"I think so," replied Miss Miranda, looking about to make sure we were not overheard. "He is very much in love with her, and I think she cares for him, but she is such a coquettish little rogue that one cannot be sure of her. Besides, this trouble of Philip's began before he planned this house party, and before he thought of inviting Miss Leslie and her sister down here."
"Does he talk frankly to you about Mildred?"
"Oh, yes, he hopes to win her—indeed, he says he feels confident of succeeding. But I think he tries to persuade himself that he will succeed, while really she is breaking his heart over her flirtation with Gilbert Crane."
"Gilbert Crane!" I exclaimed, greatly surprised. "Why, I thought she was flirting so desperately with the Earl."
"Nonsense! Mildred is just teasing Philip with him. When she flirts so openly, there is no danger. But she conceals her liking for Gilbert Crane. He's here to-night, and I'm sure I don't know what will happen."
"But Gilbert Crane! why he's a friend of Philip's."
"Yes, our fellow townsman, and one of Philip's best friends."
"But he can't hold a candle to Philip."
"I know it. Philip is rich, or will be, and Philip is handsome and talented, while Gilbert is none of these. But somehow he has a queer sort of fascination over Mildred, and she is certainly very gracious to him."
"Philip and Gilbert are as good friends as ever, aren't they?"
"Yes, I think so. At least they were until lately. But Mildred's evident preference for Gilbert's society has wounded Philip, and though he treats Gilbert as kindly as ever, I've seen him look at him as if he wondered how he could play such an unfriendly part."
"You think, then, to put it plainly, that Gilbert is trying to win Mildred away from Philip?"
"I do, and I think Philip is as much hurt by Gilbert's treachery as by Mildred's fickleness. But I cannot think that it is this affair that worried Philip so last week. For then, Mildred hadn't come, and Gilbert was right here all the time, and he and Philip were inseparable. No, it's something else, and I can't imagine what."
"Phil seems about as usual to me," I said.
"Yes, he is much brighter since you young people came. More like his old self. But when he's alone, even now, he drops into an attitude of absolute despair. I've seen him, and it is something very dreadful that has come to my boy. Oh, Peter, can't you find out what it is, and then I'm sure we can help him."
I assured Miss Miranda that I would try in every possible way to do all I could to help, but I felt convinced that no one could help Philip at the present time, except Mildred Leslie herself.
Then Mr. Maxwell came in and joined us, and the tenor of our conversation changed.
I should have been glad to talk with him about Philip, but owing to his deafness I couldn't carry on such a conversation in the drawing-room. But notwithstanding his affliction, Mr. Maxwell had a fine ear for music, and greatly enjoyed it. A piano, violin and harp furnished the music on this occasion, and as it was of exceedingly good quality, Mr. Maxwell sat and listened, tapping his foot gently in time with the rhythm. I saw him glance at Philip several times, and, if the boy was smiling, the old gentleman's anxiety seemed relieved, but if Phil was over-quiet or sober-looking, Mr. Maxwell sighed and glanced away again.
The drawing-room was the front room on the left, as one entered the great hall that ran through the centre of the house. Back of it was the billiard-room; back of that, Mr. Maxwell's study and behind that a well-filled conservatory.
On the right of the wide hall, the front room was the music-room;