Lord Arleigh's face flushed.
"Yes," he acknowledged, "I have an ideal of my own, derived from poetry I have read, from pictures I have seen--an ideal of perfect grace, loveliness, and purity. When I meet that ideal, I shall meet my fate."
"Then you have never yet seen the woman you would like to to marry?" pursued the duchess.
"No," he answered, quite seriously; "strange to say, although I have seen some of the fairest and noblest types of womanhood, I have not yet met with my ideal."
They were disturbed by a sudden movement--the flowers that Philippa held in her hand had fallen to the ground.
Chapter XI.
Captain Greshan sprang forward to lift the flowers which Miss L'Estrange had dropped.
"Nay," she said, "never mind them. A fresh flower is very nice. A flower that has once been in the dust has lost its beauty."
There was no trace of pain in the clear voice; it was rich and musical. Philippa L'Estrange, seated in the bright sunshine, heard the words that were to her a death-warrant, yet made no sign. "I have not yet met with my ideal," Lord Arleigh had said.
Captain Gresham picked up some of the fallen flowers.