“I can afford to laugh at the world to please myself in the choice of a wife.  There are certain circumstances under which I would not have married any one; these circumstances do not surround my darling.  She stands out clear and distinct as a bright jewel from the rest of the world.  To-day she promised to be my wife, but she is so sensitive and hesitating that I am almost afraid I shall lose her even now, and I want to marry her as soon as I can.”

“But why,” asked the duchess, “do you tell me this?”

“Because it concerns you most nearly.  She lives under your roof—­she is, in some measure, your protegee.”

“Vere will be very angry when he hears of it,” said the duchess.  And then Lord Arleigh looked up proudly.

“I do not see why he should.  It is no business of his.”

“He will think it so strange.”

“It is no stranger than any other marriage,” said Lord Arleigh.  “Philippa, you disappoint me.  I expected more sympathy at least from you.”

The tone of his voice was so full of pain that she looked up quickly.

“Do you think me unkind, Norman?  You could not expect any true friend of yours to be very delighted at such a marriage as this, could you?” It seemed as though she knew and understood that opposition made his own plan seem only the dearer to him.  “Still I have no wish to fail in sympathy.  Madaline is very lovely and very winning—­I have a great affection for her—­and I think—­nay, I am quite sure—­that she loves you very dearly.”

“That is better—­that is more like your own self, Philippa.  You used to be above all conventionality.  I knew that in the depths of your generous heart you would be pleased for your old friend to be happy at last—­and I shall be happy, Philippa.  You wish me well, do you not?”

Her lips seemed hard and dry as she replied: 

“Yes, I wish you well.”

“What I wished to consult you about is my marriage.  It must not take place here, of course.  I understand, and think it only natural, that the duke does not wish to have public attention drawn to Madaline.  We all like to keep our little family secrets; consequently I have thought of a plan which I believe will meet all the difficulties of the case.”

The pallor of the duchess’ face deepened.

“Are you faint or ill, Philippa?” he asked, wondering at her strange appearance.

“No,” she replied, “it is only the heat that affects me.  Go on with your story, Norman; it interests me.”

“That is like my dear old friend Philippa.  I thought a marriage from here would not do—­it would entail publicity and remark; that none of us would care for—­besides, there could hardly be a marriage under your auspices during the absence of the duke.”

“No, it would hardly be en regle,” she agreed.

“But,” continued Norman, “if Lady Peters would befriend me—­if she would go away to some quiet sea-side place, and take Madaline with her—­then, at the end of a fortnight, I might join them there, and we could be married, with every due observance of conventionality, but without calling undue public attention to the ceremony.  Do you not think that a good plan, Philippa?”