ss would say. "Norman wants an
ideal. You were content with a mere mortal--he will never be."

"Then find him an ideal, Philippa," would be the duke's reply "You know
some of the nicest girls in London; find him an ideal among them."

Then to the beautiful face would come the strange, brooding smile.

"Give me time," would her Grace of Hazlewood say; "I shall find just
what I want for him--in time."

Chapter XVI.

It was a beautiful, pure morning. For many years there had not been so
brilliant a season in London; every one seemed to be enjoying it; ball
succeeded ball; _fete_ succeeded _fete_. Lord Arleigh had received a
note from the Duchess of Hazlewood, asking him if he would call before
noon, as she wished to see him.

He went at once to Verdun House, and was told that the duchess was
engaged, but would see him in a few minutes. Contrary to the usual
custom, he was shown into a pretty morning-room, one exclusively used by
the duchess--a small, octagonal room, daintily furnished, which opened
on to a small rose-garden, also exclusively kept for the use of the
duchess. Into this garden neither friend nor visitor ever ventured; it
was filled with rose-trees, a little fountain played in the midst, and a
small trellised arbor was at one side. Why had he been shown into the
duchess' private room? He had often heard the duke tease his wife about
her room, and say that no one was privileged to enter it; why, then, was
such a privilege accorded him?

He smiled to himself, thinking that in all probability it was some
mistake of the servants; he pictured to himself the expression of
Philippa's face when she should find him there. He looked round; the
room bore traces of her presence--around him were some of her favorite
flowers and books.

He went to the long French window, wondering at the rich collection of
roses, and there he saw a picture that never forsook his memory
again--there he met his fate--saw the ideal woman of his dreams at last.
He had treated all notions of love in a very off-hand, cavalier kind of
manner; he had contented himself with his own favorite axiom--"Love is
fate;" if ever it was to come to him it would come, and there would be
an end of it. He had determined on one thing--this same love should be
his slave, his servant, never his master; but, as he stood looking out,
he was compelled to own his kingship was over.

Standing there, his heart throbbing as it had never done before, ev