"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."
"I can afford to laugh at the world to please myself in the choice of a wife. There are certain circumstances under which I would not have married any one; these circumstances do not surround my darling. She stands out clear and distinct as a bright jewel from the rest of the world. To-day she promised to be my wife, but she is so sensitive and hesitating that I am almost afraid I shall lose her even now, and I want to marry her as soon as I can."
"But why," asked the duchess, "do you tell me this?"
"Because it concerns you most nearly. She lives under your roof--she is, in some measure, your protégée."
"Vere will be very angry when he hears of it," said the duchess. And then Lord Arleigh looked up proudly.