“Still, she was married?” said Lord Arleigh.

“Yes, certainly; but unhappily married.  Her daughter, however, has received a good education, and now she will remain with us.  But, Norman, in this I may trust you, as in everything else?”

“You may trust me implicitly,” he replied.

“The duke did not quite like the idea of having her to live with us at first—­and I do not wish it to be mentioned to him.  If he speaks of it to you at all, it will be as my caprice.  Let it pass—­do not ask any questions about her; it only annoys her—­it only annoys him.  She is very happy with me.  You see,” she continued, “women can keep a secret.  She has been here three weeks, yet you have never seen her before, and now it is by accident.”

“But,” said Norman, “what do you intend to do with her?”

The duchess took a seat near him, and assumed quite a confidential air.

“I have been for some time looking out for a companion,” she said; “Lady Peters really must live at Verdun Royal—­a housekeeper is not sufficient for that large establishment—­it requires more than that.  She has consented to make it her home, and I must have some one to be with me.”

“You have the duke,” he put in, wonderingly.

“True, and a husband most, perforce, be all that is adorable; still, having been accustomed to a lady-companion, I prefer keeping one; and this girl, so beautiful, so pure, so simple, is all that I need, or could wish for.”

“So I should imagine,” he replied.  “Will you introduce her into society, Philippa?”

“I think not; she is a simple child, yet wonderfully clever.  No, society shall not have her.  I will keep her for my own.”

“What is her name?” asked Lord Arleigh.

The duchess laughed.

“Ah, now, man-like, you are growing curious!  I shall not tell you.  Yes, I will; it is the name above all others for an ideal—­Madaline.”

“Madaline,” he repeated; “it is very musical—­Madaline.”

“It suits her,” said the duchess; “and now, Norman, I must go.  I have some pressing engagements to-day.”

“You will not introduce me then, Philippa?”

“No—­why should I?  You would only disturb the child’s dream.”

Chapter XVII.

Lord Arleigh could not rest for thinking of the vision he had seen; the face of the duchess’ companion haunted him as no other face had ever done.  He tried hard to forget it, saying to himself that it was a fancy, a foolish imagination, a day-dream; he tried to believe that in a few days he should have forgotten it.

It was quite otherwise.  He left Vere House in a fever of unrest; he went everywhere he could think of to distract his thoughts.  But the fair face with its sweet, maidenly expression, the tender blue eyes with their rich poetic depths, the sweet, sensitive lips were ever present.  Look where he would he saw them.  He went to the opera, and they seemed to smile at him from the stage; he walked home in the starlight—­they were smiling at him from the stars; he tried to sleep—­they haunted him; none had followed him as those eyes did.