“I know some one who is far more beautiful in my eyes,” he returned.

“Norman,” she said, half hesitatingly, “do you know one thing that I have thought so strange?”

“No, I have not been trusted with many of your thoughts yet,” he returned.

“I have wondered so often why you never fell in love with the duchess.”

“Fate had something better in store for me,” he said, laughing.

She looked surprised.

“You cannot mean that you really think I am better than she is, Norman?”

“I do think it, darling; ten thousand times better—­ten thousand times fairer in my eyes.”

“Norman,” she said, a sudden gleam of memory brightening her face; “I had almost forgotten—­the duchess gave me this for you; I was to be sure to give it to you before the sun set on our wedding-day.”

She held out a white packet sealed securely, and he took it wonderingly.  He tore off the outer cover, and saw, written on the envelope: 

“A wedding present from Philippa, Duchess of to Lord Arleigh.  To be read alone on his wedding-day.”

Chapter XXVI.

Lord Arleigh stared at the packet which his wife had given him, and again and again read the words that were inscribed on it:  “A wedding present from Philippa, Duchess of Hazlewood to Lord Arleigh.  To be read alone on his wedding-day.”  What could it mean?  Philippa at times took strange caprices into her head.  This seemed to be one of the strangest.  He held the letter in his hand, a strange presentiment of evil creeping over him which he could not account for.  From the envelope came a sweet scent, which the duchess always used.  It was so familiar to him that for a few minutes it brought her vividly before him—­he could have fancied her standing near him.  Then he remembered the strange words:  “To be read alone.”  What could that mean?  That the letter contained something that his young wife must not see or hear.

He looked at her.  She had seemingly forgotten all about the packet, and stood now, with a smile on her face, before one of the finest pictures in the gallery, wrapt in a dream of delight.  There could not be anything in the letter affecting her.  Still, as Philippa had written so pointedly, it would be better perhaps for him to heed her words.

“Madaline, my darling,” he said, sinking on to an ottoman, “you have taken no tea.  You would like some.  Leave me here alone for half an hour.  I want to think.”

She did what she had never done voluntarily before.  She went up to him, and clasped her arms round his neck.  She bent her blushing face over his, and the caress surprised as much as it delighted him—­she was so shyly demonstrative.

“What are you going to think about, Norman?  Will it be of me?”

“Of whom else should I think on my wedding-day, if not of my wife?” he asked.

“I should be jealous if your thoughts went anywhere else,” replied Madaline.  “There is a daring speech, Norman.  I never thought I should make such a one.”