Fate was, however, too strong for him. He had decided that he would
leave London rather than run the risk of meeting the Duchess of
Hazlewood. He went one morning to a favorite exhibition of pictures, and
the first person he saw in the gallery was the duchess herself. As their
eyes met her face grew deadly pale, so pale that he thought she would
faint and fall to the ground; her lips opened as though she would fain
utter his name. To him she looked taller, more beautiful, more stately
than ever--her superb costume suited her to perfection--yet he looked
coldly into the depths of her dark eyes, and without a word or sign of
greeting passed on.
He never knew whether she was hurt or not, but he decided that he would
leave London at once. He was a sensitive man more tender of heart than
men as a rule, and their meeting had been a source of torture to him. He
could not endure even the thought that Philippa should have lost all
claim to his respect. He decided to go to Tintagel, in wild, romantic
Cornwall; at least there would be boating, fishing, and the glorious
scenery.
"I must go somewhere," he said to himself--"I must do something.
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