“Such matters are always best left alone,” he said to himself, “If I should ever have children of my own, I will never interfere in their love affairs.”

Think as he would ponder as he would, it was no easy task that lay before him—­to tell her in so many words that he did not love her.  Surely no man had ever had anything so ungracious to do before.

He looked round the grounds, and presently saw her the center of a brilliant group near the lake.  The Duke of Ashwood was by her side, the elite of the guests had gathered round her.  She—­beautiful, bright, animated—­was talking, as he could see, with her usual grace and ease.  It struck him suddenly as absurd that this beautiful woman should care—­as people said she did care—­for him.

Let him get it all over.  He longed to see the bright face shine on him with sisterly kindness, and to feel himself at ease with her; he longed to have all misunderstanding done away with.

He went up to the little group, and again the same peculiarity struck him—­they all made way for him—­even the Duke of Ashwood, although he did it with a frown on his face and an angry look in his eyes.  Each one seemed to consider that he had some special right to be by the side of the beautiful Miss L’Estrange; and she, as usual when he was present, saw and heard no one else.

It was high time the world was disabused.  Did she herself join in the popular belief?  He could not tell.  He looked at the bright face; the dark eyes met his, but he read no secret in them.

“Philippa,” he said, suddenly, “the water looks very tempting—­would you like a row?”

“Above everything else,” she replied.  And they went off in the little pleasure-boat together.

It was a miniature lake, tall trees bordering it and dipping their green branches into the water.  The sun shone on the feathered spray that fell from the sculls, the white swans raised their graceful heads as the little boat passed by, and Philippa lay back languidly, watching the shadow of the trees.  Suddenly an idea seemed to occur to her.  She looked at Lord Arleigh.

“Norman,” she said, “let the boat drift—­I want to talk to you, and I cannot while you are rowing.”

He rested on his sculls, and the boat drifted under the drooping branches of a willow-tree.  He never forgot the picture that then presented itself—­the clear deep water, the green trees, and the beautiful face looking at him.

“Norman,” she said, in a clear, low voice, “I want to tell you that I overheard all that you said to the Duchess of Aytoun.  I could not help it—­I was so near to you.”

She was taking the difficulty into her own hands!  He felt most thankful.

“Did you, Philippa?  I thought you were engrossed with the gallant captain.”

“Did you really and in all truth mean what you said to her?” she asked.

“Certainly; you know me well enough to be quite sure that I never say what I do not mean.”