But he would not hear of that—­he was delighted with the beautiful and valuable present.  The yacht was christened “Queen Philippa”; and it was decided that, when the end of the season had come, the duke should take his beautiful wife to Verdun Royal, and, after having installed her there, should go at once to sea.  He had invited a party of friends—­all yachtsmen like himself—­and they had agreed to take “Queen Philippa” to the Mediterranean, there to cruise during the autumn months.

As it was settled so it was carried out; before the week had ended the duke, duchess, and Madeline were all at Verdun Royal.  Perhaps the proud young wife had never realized before how completely her husband loved her.  This temporary parting was to him a real pain.

A few days before it took place he began to look pale and ill.  She saw that he could not eat, that he did not sleep or rest.  Her heart was touched by his simple fidelity, his passionate love, although the one fell purpose of her life remained unchanged.

“If you dislike going, Vere,” she said to him one day, “do not go—­stay at Verdun Royal.”

“The world would laugh if I did that, Philippa,” he returned; “it would guess at once what was the reason, because every one knows how dearly I love you.  We should be called Darby and Joan.”

“No one would ever dare to call me Joan,” she said, “for I have nothing of Joan in me.”

The duke sighed—­perhaps he thought that it would be all the better if she had; but, fancying there was something, after all, slightly contemptuous in her manner, as though she thought it unmanly in him to repine about leaving her, he said no more.

One warm, brilliant day he took leave of her and she was left to work out her purpose.  She never forgot the day of his departure—­it was one of those hot days when the summer skies seemed to be half obscured by a copper-colored haze, when the green leaves hang languidly, and the birds seek the coolest shade, when the flowers droop with thirst, and never a breath of air stir their blossoms, when there is no picture so refreshing to the senses as that of a cool deep pool in the recesses of a wood.

She stood at the grand entrance, watching him depart, and she knew that with all her beauty, her grace, her talent, her sovereignty, no one had ever loved her as this man did.  Then, after he was gone, she stood still on the broad stone terrace, with that strange smile on her face, which seemed to mar while it deepened her beauty.

“It will be a full revenge,” she said to herself.  “There could be no fuller.  But what shall I do when it is all known?”

She was not one to flinch from the course of action she had marked out for herself, nor from the consequences of that course; but she shuddered even in the heat, as she thought what her life would be when her vengeance was taken.

“He will never forgive me,” she said, “he will look upon me as the wickedest of women.  It does not matter; he should not have exasperated me by slighting me.”