much about it. I know that I can trust her in all things, even though
she makes no protestations."

They fell into the general routine of life. One loved--the other allowed
herself to be loved. The duke adored his wife, and she accepted his
adoration.

They were never spoken of as a model couple, although every one agreed
that it was an excellent match--that they were very happy. The duke
looked up with wondering admiration to the beautiful stately lady who
bore his name. She could not do wrong in his eyes, everything she said
was right, all she did was perfect. He never dreamed of opposing her
wishes. There was no lady in England so completely her own mistress, so
completely mistress of every one and everything around her, as her Grace
of Hazlewood.

When the season came around again, and the brilliant life which she had
laid out for herself was hers, she might have been the happiest of women
but for the cloud which darkened, her whole existence. Lord Arleigh had
kept his promise--he, had been her true friend, with her husband's full
permission. The duke was too noble and generous himself to feel any such
ignoble passion as jealousy--he was far too confiding. To be jealous of
his wife would never have entered his mind; nor was there the least
occasion for it. If Lord Arleigh had been her own brother, their
relationship could not have been of a more blameless kind; even the
censorious world of fashion, so quick to detect a scandal, so merciless
in its enjoyment of one, never presumed to cast an aspersion on this
friendship. There was something so frank, so open about it, that blame
was an impossibility. If the duke was busy or engaged when his wife
wanted to ride or drive, he asked her cousin Lord Arleigh to take his