It was not his fault; it was simply because the electric spark called love had never been and never could be elicited between his soul and hers.  He would have done anything for her—­he was her truest, best friend; but he was not her lover.

She hoped against hope.  Each day she counted the kind words he had said to her; she noted every glance, every look, every expression.  But she could not find that she made any progress—­nothing that indicated any change from brotherly friendship to love.  Still she hoped against hope, the chances are that she would have died of a broken heart.

Then the season ended.  She went back to Verdun Royal with Lady Peters, and Lord Arleigh to Beechgrove.  They wrote to each other at Christmas, and met at Calverley, the seat of Lord Rineham.  She contrived, even when away from him, to fill his life.  She was always consulting him on matters of interest to her; she sought his advice continually, and about everything, from the renewal of a lease to the making of a new acquaintance.  “I cannot do wrong,” she would say to him, “if I follow your advice.”  He was pleased and happy to be able to help the daughter of his mother’s dearest friend.

Her manner completely deceived him.  If she had evinced the least pique or discontent—­if she had by word or look shown the least resentment—­he would have suspected that she cared for him, and would have been on his guard.  As it was, he would not have believed any one who had told him she loved him.

The explanation had been made; there was no longer even a shadow between them; they both understood that the weak, nonsensical tie was broken.  That they were the dearest of friends, and quite happy, would have been Lord Arleigh’s notion of matters.  Philippa L’Estrange might have told a different story.

The proposed party at Beechgrove did not come off.  There were some repairs needed in the eastern wing, and Lord Arleigh himself had so many engagements, that no time could be found for it; but when the season came round Philippa and he met again.

By this time some of Miss L’Estrange’s admirers had come to the conclusion that there was no truth in the report of the engagement between herself and Lord Arleigh.  Among these was his grace the Duke of Hazlewood.  He loved the beautiful, queenly girl who had so disdainfully refused his coronet—­the very refusal had made him care more than ever for her.  He was worldly-wise enough to know that there were few women in London who would have refused him; and he said to himself that, if she would not marry him, he would go unmarried to the grave.  He was one of the first to feel sure that there was no truth in the rumors that had grieved him so the previous year.  Miss L’Estrange and Lord Arleigh were by force of circumstances great friends—­nothing more, and this season he determined to make a friend of the man he had detested as a rival.

When the Duke of Hazlewood made up his mind, he generally accomplished his desire; he sought Lord Arleigh with such assiduity, he made himself so pleasant and agreeable to him, that the master of Beechgrove soon showed him his most cordial and sincere liking.  Then they became warm friends.  The duke confided in Lord Arleigh—­he told him the whole story of his love for Miss L’Estrange.