He listened very patiently, examined the affair, and then told her that he believed she had been robbed.

“What shall I do?” she asked, looking at him earnestly.

“I know what you ought to do, Philippa.  You ought to punish him.”

“But he has a wife, Norman, and innocent little children; in exposing him I shall punish them, and they are innocent.”

“That is one of the strangest of universal laws to me,” said Lord Arleigh—­“why the innocent always do, and always must, suffer for the guilty; it is one of the mysteries I shall never understand.  Common sense tells me that you ought to expose this man—­that he ought to be punished for what he has done.  Yet, if you do, his wife and children will be dragged down into an abyss of misery.  Suppose you make a compromise of matters and lecture him well.”

He was half smiling as he spoke, but she took every word in serious earnest.

“Philippa,” he continued, “why do you not marry?  A husband would save you all this trouble; he would attend to your affairs, and shield you from annoyances of this kind.”

“The answer to your question, ‘Why do I not marry?’ Would form a long story,” she replied, and then she turned the conversation.

But he was determined to keep his word, and pleaded with her for the duke.  Another opportunity came that evening.  It was Lady Peters’ birthday, and Philippa had invited some of her most intimate friends; not young people, but those with whom she thought her chaperon would enjoy herself best.  The result was a very pleasant dinner-party, followed by a very pleasant evening.  Lord Arleigh could not be absent, for it was, in some measure, a family fete.

The guests did not remain very late, and Lady Peters, professing herself tired with the exertions she had made, lay down on a couch, and was soon asleep.  Philippa stood by the window with the rose-silk hangings drawn.

“Come out on the balcony,” she said to Lord Arleigh, “the room is very warm.”

It was night, but the darkness was silver-gray, not black.  The sky above was brilliant with the gleam of a thousand stars, the moon was shining behind some silvery clouds, the great masses of foliage in the park were just stirred with the whisper of the night, and sweetest odors came from heliotrope and mignonnette; the brooding silence of the summer night lay over the land.

Philippa sat down, and Lord Arleigh stood by her side.

The moonlight falling on her beautiful face softened it into wondrous loveliness—­it was pale, refined, with depths of passion in the dark eyes, and tender, tremulous smiles on the scarlet lips.  She wore some material of white and gold.  A thin scarf was thrown carelessly over her white shoulders.  When the wind stirred it blew the scarf against her face.

She might have been the very goddess of love, she looked so fair out in the starlight.  If there had been one particle of love in Lord Arleigh’s heart, that hour and scene must have called it into life.  For a time they sat in perfect silence.  Her head was thrown back against a pillar round which red roses clustered and clung, and the light of the stars fell full upon her face; the dark eyes were full of radiance.