“I have come to make a confession, Philippa,” he began.

“So I imagined; you look very guilty.  What is it?”

“I have found my ideal.  I love her, she loves me, and I want to marry her.”

The pallor of the lovely lips deepened.  For a few minutes no sound was heard except the falling of the spray of the fountain and then the Duchess of Hazlewood looked up and said: 

“Why do you make this confession to me, Norman?”

“Because it concerns some one in whom you are interested.  It is Madaline whom I love, Madaline whom I wish to marry.  But that is not strange news to you, I am sure, Philippa.”

Again there was a brief silence; and then the duchess said, in a low voice: 

“You must admit that I warned you, Norman, from the very first.”

He raised his head proudly.

“You warned me?  I do not understand.”

“I kept her out of your sight.  I told you it would be better for you not to see her.  I advised you, did I not?”

She seemed rather to be pleading in self-defense than thinking of him.

“But, my dearest Philippa, I want no warning—­I am very happy as to the matter I have nearest my heart.  I thank you for bringing my sweet Madaline here.  You do not seem to understand?”

She looked at him earnestly.

“Do you love her so very much, Norman?”

“I love her better than any words of mine can tell,” he said.  “The moment I saw her first I told you my dream was realized—­I had found my ideal.  I have loved her ever since.”

“How strange!” murmured the duchess.

“Do you think it strange?  Remember how fair and winsome she is—­how sweet and gentle.  I do not believe there is any one like her.”

The white hand that, held the jeweled fan moved more vigorously.

“Why do you tell me this, Norman?  What do you wish me to do?”

“You have always been so kind to me,” he said, “you have ever been as a sister, my best, dearest, truest friend.  I could not have a feeling of this kind without telling you of it.  Do you remember how you used to tease me about my ideal.  Neither of us thought in those days that I should find her under your roof.”

“No,” said the duchess, quietly, “it is very strange.”

“I despaired of winning Madaline,” he continued.  “She had such strange ideas of the wonderful distance between us—­she thought so much more of me than of herself, of the honor of my family and my name—­that, to tell you the truth, Philippa, I thought I should never win her consent to be my wife.”

“And you have won it at last,” she put in, with quiet gravity.

“Yes—­at last.  This morning she promised to be my wife.”

The dark eyes looked straight into his own.

“It is a miserable marriage for you, Norman.  Granted that Madaline has beauty, grace, purity, she is without fortune, connection, position.  You, an Arleigh of Beechgrove, ought to do better.  I am speaking as the world will speak.  It is really a wretched marriage.”