“Yes,” she said slowly.

“Look interested in it, or you will mar my happiness.  Why, if it were your marriage, Philippa, I should consider every detail of high importance.  Do not look cold or indifferent about it.”

She roused herself with a shudder.

“I am neither cold nor indifferent,” she said—­“on the contrary I am vitally interested.  You wish me, of course, to ask Lady Peters if she will do this?”

“Yep, because I know she will refuse you nothing.”

“Then that is settled,” said the duchess.  “There is a pretty, quiet little watering-place called St. Mildred’s—­I remember hearing Vere speak of it last year—­which would meet your wishes, I think, if Lady Peters and Madaline consent.”

“I am sure they will consent,” put in Lord Arleigh hopefully.

“There is another thing to be thought of,” said the duchess—­“a trousseau for the fair young bride.”

“Yes, I know.  She will have every fancy gratified after our marriage, but there will not be time for much preparations before it.”

“Let me be fairy godmother,” said the duchess.  “In three weeks from to-day I engage to have such a trousseau as has rarely been seen.  You can add dresses and ornaments to it afterward.”

“You are very good.  Do you know,” he said, “that it is only now that I begin to recognize my old friend?  At first you seemed so unsympathetic, so cold—­now you are my sister Philippa the sharer of my joys and sorrows.  We had no secrets when we were children.”

“No,” she agreed, mournfully, “none.”

“And we have none now,” he said, with a happy laugh.  “How astonished Vere will be when he returns and finds that Madaline is married!  And I think that, if it can be all arranged without any great blow to his family pride, he will not be ill-pleased.”

“I should think not,” she returned, listlessly.

“And you, Philippa—­you will extend to my beloved wife the friendship and affection that you have given to me?”

“Yes,” she replied, absently.

“Continue to be her fairy-godmother.  There is no friend who can do as you can do.  You will be Madaline’s sheet-anchor and great hope.”

She turned away with a shudder.

“Philippa,” he continued, “will you let me send Lady Peters to you now, that I may know as soon as possible whether she consents?”

“You can send her if you will, Norman.”

Was it his fancy, or did he really, as he stood at the door, hear a deep, heart-broken sigh?  Did her voice, in a sad, low wail, come to him—­“Norman, Norman!”

He turned quickly[5], but she seemed already to have forgotten him, and was looking through the open window.

Was it his fancy again, when the door had closed, or did she really cry—­“Norman!” He opened the door quickly.

“Did you call me, Philippa?” he asked.

“No,” she replied; and he went away.