“Let us walk once more in the garden,” she said, and rose and opened a glass door in the alcove that led into a garden that was very prettily lit by coloured lanterns. She took the Duke’s arm, and they passed along the prim paths between avenues of clipped limes and box bushes.
For some while she did not speak; then she whispered–
“It is strange to see you at Kensington again, my lord.” Her voice sounded as if it was full of tears. “Strange to think that you must leave again so soon.”
She pressed close to his side now, for she no longer wore a hoop; a quilted hood and cloak concealed her head and figure, and he thought that she must wear jasmine somewhere on her person, so strong was the scent of that blossom on the air.
“I wonder,” she continued, “if, when you come to die, you will ever think of these moments–the broken promises, the broken hearts?”
“When I come to die,” repeated the Duke musingly, “I shall no doubt think of you and your sweetness.”
“Not of me and my sadness?”
Philip Wharton did not answer; he smiled into the darkness, which he perceived was beginning to be lightened by the first delicate sparkle of dawn.
“Have you ever done one good action?” continued the voice at his side.
“Oh, Madame!”