“It is a great pity that he ever saw her,” observed the duke, warmly.  “From all I hear, the man’s life is wrecked.”

“I warned him,” said Philippa, eagerly.  “I refused at first to introduce her to him.  I told him that prudence and caution were needful.”

“How came it about then, Philippa?”

The duchess shrugged her shoulders.

“There is a fate, I suppose, in these things.  He saw her one day when I was out of the way, and, according to his own account, fell in love with her on the spot.  Be that as it may, he was determined to marry her.”

“It seems very strange,” said the Duke of Hazlewood, musingly.  “I have never known him to do anything ‘queer’ before.”

“He can never say that I did not warn him,” she remarked, carelessly.

“But it was such a wretched marriage for him.  Who was she, Philippa?  I have never made many inquiries about her.”

“I would really rather not discuss the question,” said the duchess; “it has no interest for me now.  Norman and I have quarreled.  In all probability we shall never be friends again.”

“All through this marriage?” interrogated the duke.

“All through this marriage,” repeated his wife—­“and I know no subject that irritates me so much.  Please say no more about it, Vere.”

“I should like to know who the girl is,” he urged.  “You have never told me.”

“I shall be jealous of her in a few minutes!” exclaimed Philippa “Already she has sundered an old friendship that I thought would last forever; and now, directly you return, you can talk of no one else.”

“I should like to see you jealous,” said the duke, who was one of the most unsuspicious of men.

She smiled; yet there came to her a sharp, bitter memory of the night on the balcony when she had been jealous of the ideal woman, the unknown love whom Norman had sketched for her.

The duke, however, was pertinacious; he could not give up the subject.

“You told me,” he resumed, “that she was the daughter of an old friend of yours named Dornham—­and it seems to me, Philippa, that I have some kind of remembrance of that name which is far from pleasant.”

With an air of resignation the duchess rose from her seat.

“I am tired, Vere,” she said, “quite tired of the subject.  Yet I ought not to be selfish.  Of course, the incident is all new to you—­you have been away from all kinds of news; to us it is an old, worn-out story.  Lord Arleigh and I quarreled and parted because of his marriage, so you may imagine it is not a very attractive subject to me.”

“Well, I will say no more about it, but I am sincerely sorry, Philippa.  Of all our friends, I like Lord Arleigh best; and I shall decidedly refuse to quarrel with him.  His marriage is his own affair, not mine.”

“Still, you cannot make a friend of the man whom I decline to know,” she rejoined, hurriedly.