“Not from curiosity!” she repeated, still hiding her burning face with her hands.

“No, it was from a very different motive.”  And then he paused abruptly.  What was he going to say?  How far had he already left all conventionality behind?  He stopped just in time, and then continued, gravely:  “The Duchess of Hazlewood and myself are such true and tried friends that we never think of keeping any secrets from each other.  We have been, as I told you before, brother and sister all our lives—­it was only natural that she should tell me about you.”

“And, having heard my story, you ask me to be one of your friends?” she said, slowly.  There were pain and pathos in her voice as she spoke.

“Yes,” he replied, “having heard it all, I desire nothing on earth so much as to win your friendship.”

“My mother?” she murmured.

“Yes—­your mother’s unfortunate marriage, and all that came of it.  I can repeat the story.”

“Oh, no!” she interrupted.  “I do not wish to hear it.  You know it, and you would still be my friend?”

“Answer me one question,” he said, gently.  “Is this sad story the result of any fault of yours?  Are you in any way to blame for it?”

“No; not in the least.  Still, Lord Arleigh, although I do not share the fault, I share the disgrace—­nothing can avert that from me.”

“Nothing of the kind,” he opposed; “disgrace and yourself are as incompatible as pitch and a dove’s wing.”

“But,” she continued, wonderingly, “do you quite understand?”

“Yes; the duchess told me the whole story.  I understand it, and am truly grieved for you; I know the duke’s share in it and all.”

He saw her face grow pale even to the lips.

“And yet you would be my friend—­you whom people call proud—­you whose very name is history!  I cannot believe it, Lord Arleigh.”

There was a wistful look in her eyes, as though she would fain believe that it were true, yet that she was compelled to plead even against herself.

“We cannot account for likes or dislikes,” he said; “I always look upon them as nature’s guidance as to whom we should love, and whom we should avoid.  The moment I saw you I—­liked you.  I went home, and thought about you all day long.”

“Did you?” she asked, wonderingly.  “How very strange!”

“It does not seem strange to me,” he observed.  “Before I had looked at you three minutes I felt as though I had known you all my life.  How long have we been talking here?  Ten minutes, perhaps—­yet I feel as though already there is something that has cut us off from the rest of the world, and left us alone together.  There is no accounting for such strange feelings as these.”

“No,” she replied, dreamily, “I do not think there is.”

“Perhaps,” he continued, “I may have been fanciful all my life; but years ago, when I was a boy at school, I pictured to myself a heroine such as I thought I should love when I came to be a man.”