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, every nerve thrilling, his face flushed, a strange, unknown sensation filling him with vague, sweet wonder, Lord Arleigh met his fate.
This was the picture he saw--a beautiful but by no means a common one.
In the trellised arbor, which contained a stand and one or two chairs, was a young girl of tall, slender figure, with a fair, sweet face, inexpressibly lovely, lilies and roses exquisitely blended--eyes like blue hyacinths, large, bright, and starlight, with white lids and dark long lashes, so dark that they gave a peculiar expression to the eyes--one of beauty, thought, and originality.

The lips were sweet and sensitive, beautiful when smiling, but even more beautiful in repose.
The oval contour of the face was perfect; from the white brow, where the veins were so clearly marked, rose a crown of golden hair, not brown or auburn, but of pure pale gold--a dower of beauty in itself.
The expression of the face was one of shy virgin beauty.

One could imagine meeting it in the dim aisles of some cathedral, near the shrine of a saint, as an angel or a Madonna; one could imagine it bending over a sick child, lighting with its pure loveliness the home of sorrow; but one could never picture it in a ball-room.