Later on that afternoon the heat seemed to have increased, not lessened, and the ladies had declared even the cool, shaded drawing-room, with its sweet scents and mellowed light, to be too warm; so they had gone out on to the lawn, where a sweet western wind was blowing.  Lady Peters had taken with her a book, which she made some pretense of reading, but over which her eyes closed in most suspicious fashion.  The duchess, too, had a book, but she made no pretense of opening it—­her beautiful face had a restless, half-wistful expression.  They had quitted the drawing-room all together, but Madaline had gone to gather some peaches.  The duchess liked them freshly gathered, and Madaline knew no delight so keen as that of giving her pleasure.

When she had been gone some few minutes, Lord Arleigh asked where she was, and the duchess owned, laughingly, to her fondness for ripe, sun-kissed peaches.

“Madaline always contrives to find the very best forms,” she said.  “She is gone to look for some now.”

“I will go and help her,” said Lord Arleigh, looking at Philippa’s face.  He thought the fair cheeks themselves not unlike peaches, with their soft, sweet, vivid coloring.

She smiled to herself with bitter scorn as he went away.

“It works well,” she said; “but it is his own fault—­Heaven knows, his own fault.”

An hour afterward Lady Peters said to her, in a very solemn tone of voice: 

“Philippa, my dear, it may not be my duty to speak, but I cannot help asking you if you notice anything?”

“No, nothing at this minute.”

But Lady Peters shook her head with deepest gravity.

“Do you not notice the great attention that Lord Arleigh pays your beautiful young companion?”

“Yes, I have noticed it,” said the duchess—­and all her efforts did not prevent a burning, passionate flush rising to her face.

“May I ask you what you think of it, my dear?”

“I think nothing of it.  If Lord Arleigh chooses to fall in love with her, he may.  I warned him when she first came to live with me—­I kept her most carefully out of his sight; and then, when I could no longer conveniently do so, I told him that he must not fall in love with her.  I told him of her birth, antecedents, misfortunes—­everything connected with her.  His own mother or sister could not have warned him more sensibly.”

“And what was the result?” asked Lady Peters, gravely.

“Just what one might have expected from a man,” laughed the duchess.  “Warn them against any particular thing, and it immediately possesses a deep attraction for them.  The result was that he said she was his ideal, fairly, fully, and perfectly realized.  I, of course, could say no more.”

“But,” cried Lady Peters, aghast, “you do not think it probable that he will marry her?”

“I cannot tell.  He is a man of honor.  He would not make love to her without intending to marry her.”