CHAPTER VI.
TAKING A SAIL
The moon rose early that evening and flooded Portmaris with a light that transformed it, already picturesque enough, into a fairy village beside an enchanted ocean. Leslie sat at the open window of her room, her head resting on her hand, her eyes fixed on the sea, now calmly rippling as if it were rocking itself to sleep in the moonbeams.
Her father had gone to bed, early as it was, worn out with his long day's work and the excitement produced by the sale of his picture, and Leslie was free to recall the events of the day.
Her life hitherto had been so gray and sober, so uneventful, that the incidents which had been crowded into this day had almost bewildered her.
She ought, in common fairness to that individual, have thought first and most of Ralph Duncombe; but it was upon that other young man who had plunged into the waves to reach Dick that her mind was fixed.
Beauty, man's beauty, doesn't count much with women; indeed, it has been remarked by the observant that some of the ugliest men have married the prettiest girls, and it was not Yorke's handsome face which had impressed Leslie. It would be hard to say exactly what it was in him that had done so; perhaps it was the frank smile, the free and musical laugh, that devil-may-care air of his, or the pleasant voice which seemed to float in through the window upon the moonbeams, and find an echo in Leslie's heart. Once or twice she tried to cast him out of her mind. There seemed to her something almost approaching unmaidenliness in dwelling so much upon this stranger; the young man whom she had seen for only a few minutes, and whom she might never see again. Why, she did not even know his name, or at any rate only a part of it. "Yorke," Mr. Temple had called him, and she murmured it absently. "Yorke." It seemed to her to fit him exactly. It had a brave, alert sound in it. She could fancy him ready for any danger, any emergency. He had plunged into the waves after Dick, as if it were quite a matter of course that he should do so, had done it as naturally as if there were no other course open to him. She could see him now, as he came out, with Dick in his arms, his hair plastered on his face, his eyes bright and laughing.
And how anxious he had been to avoid any thanks or fuss! It was wicked of him, of course, to tell a story and account for his besoaked condition by stating that he had fallen off the breakwater – Leslie smiled as she thought of the thinness of the excuse – but she understood why he had fibbed, and – forgave him.
"Don't you like this Mr. Yorke, Dick?" she said to Dick, who lay in a contented coil on her lap. "You ought to do so, for if it had not been for him you would be at the bottom of the sea, little doggie, by this time."
Probably Dick would have liked to have retorted, "And if it hadn't been for him I shouldn't have gone in at all."
Then her thoughts wandered to the crippled hunchback, and her heart thrilled with gratitude as she thought of his kindness; Mrs. Whiting had said that he was a nobleman, but there had evidently been a mistake; very likely the simple-minded landlady had concluded that no one traveling with a man-servant could be less than a man of title.
Leslie thought of the two men – but most of "Yorke" – and all they had said and done for some time before Ralph Duncombe insisted upon his share in her reflections, and as she thought of him she sighed. She pitied him, and was sorry for him, but she did not want to see him again. He had frightened as well as touched her by the passionate avowal which had accompanied the ring.
The ring! She had utterly forgotten it! She put her hand to her pocket, turned it out, but the ring was not there. What had she done with it? It was fast closed in her hand, she remembered, when she heard Dick's piteous yap; and then she had sprung up, and run down the beach. She must have dropped it among the pebbles.
Her heart smote her reproachfully. The least she could do in return for the passionate love Ralph Duncombe had lavished so uselessly upon her was to keep his ring! She rose, troubled and remorseful. The tide had been going out when she dropped it; it was not likely that it would be seen by any one, and it was probably lying where it had fallen. She seemed to see the plain gold circlet lying there in the silent night, neglected and despised.
Her hat and jacket lay on the bed; she snatched them up, put them on hastily, and left the house.
A light burned behind the windows of Marine Villa opposite, and she glanced up at it, trying to picture to herself the two men in the sitting-room; the one so strong and stalwart, the other so weak and crippled.
As she went quickly down the street she was conscious of a new and strange feeling; it was half pleasant, half painful. It seemed to her as if some spirit of change had entered her quiet, peaceful, uneventful life, as if she were on the verge of some novel experience. The feeling disquieted her. She looked up at the stars almost hidden by the haze of the glorious light thrown broadcast by the moon, and there came into her mind some verses – they were from the Persian, though she did not know it – which she had seen under a picture in one of the Academy exhibitions —
"Love is abroad to-night; his wings
Beat softly at Heaven's gate!"
Murmuring the musical lines, she passed to the quay, and leaping lightly onto the beach, made her way to the breakwater.
At nine o'clock Portmaris, as a rule, goes to bed.
No one was stirring; the street, the quay, were empty. The tide was far out now, and the sands lay a golden beat between sea and beach, unbroken save where at the very margin of the lapping wavelets a boat lay at anchor.
Not even a greater enthusiast than Francis Lisle could have desired a more delicious picture than she made flitting slowly yet lightly over the beach, her graceful figure casting a long shadow behind her. "Night is youth's season," says the poet, and Leslie's heart was beating to-night with a strange pulsation.
She reached the spot where she had sat with Ralph Duncombe's ring in her hand, and going down on one knee searched carefully. The bright light revealed every pebble, and, convinced at last that it was not there, but that she must have held it until she had run some way down the sands, before she dropped it, she rose from her knees with a sigh, and was going back when she saw a man's form lying full length on the top of the breakwater.
It was a young fisherman apparently, for he was clad in the tight-fitting blue jersey and long sea boots, and wore the red woolen cap common to men and boys in Portmaris. He was stretched out full length with his head resting on his arms, his face upturned, perfectly still and motionless.
It occurred to Leslie that he might have picked up the ring, and, well aware that his class was as honest as the day she went up to him, saying:
"Have you found a ring on the beach, just here?"
The man did not answer nor move, and when she got quite up to him she saw that he was asleep.
She saw, too, something else; that it was not a Portmaris fisherman, but the young man whom Mr. Temple had called "Yorke."
With a sudden rush of crimson to her face she was about to beat a retreat when Yorke started slightly, opened his eyes, and stared up at her.
The next instant he was off the breakwater and on his feet.
"By George!" he exclaimed, with a bated breath. "It is you, Miss Lisle!"
"Yes, it is I," said Leslie as calmly and composedly as she could, and from the effort for composure her voice sounded rather cold.
"I beg your pardon. Of course it is. But – ," he hesitated a moment. "Well, the fact is, I was dreaming about you – ." He stopped, as if he were afraid he had given offense.
But Leslie smiled.
"It must have been an uncomfortable dream," she said, glancing at the breakwater.
"No," he said. "I was never more comfortable in my life. I'm more used to roughing it than you'd think. I suppose it was the beauty of the night that tempted you as it tempted me?" he went on, with his frank eyes on her face.
Leslie looked down. She could not ask him the question she had put to the supposed fisherman – if he had found her ring, of course, he would give it to her.
"Yes," she said.
"I told Dolph it was too good to sit indoors," he went on. "That's my cousin, the man you saw to-day, you know."
"Mr. Temple?" said Leslie.
"Mr. – yes, Mr. Temple," he assented, after a moment's hesitation. "And I tried to lure him out; but he doesn't care about stirring after dinner, poor old chap – ," he broke off with a laugh. "You are looking at my get-up?" he said.
Leslie smiled.
"I suppose you took me for one of the marine monsters who abound here. Fact is, I found my things wetter than I supposed – ."
"I knew you would!" said Leslie, with an air of gentle triumph.
"Yes, and as I hadn't a change with me I borrowed a suit from the landlady's boy; a 'boy' about six feet high. I fancy I rather upset my cousin's man sitting down to dinner in 'em; but they're astonishingly comfortable. I'm half inclined to take to them as a regular thing. After all, one might be worse than a fisherman, Miss Lisle."
"Very much," said Leslie, with a smile.
"Oh, you're surely not going!" he said, as she half turned toward the quay. "It's far better out here than indoors; and it's early, too. Won't you walk across the sand to the edge of the sea? It's quite dry."
He moved in that direction as he spoke, and Leslie, with a twinge of conscience, moved also.
"It's a pity all life can't be a moonlight night," he said, after a pause, and with a faint sigh. "By George, it would be grand on the water to-night. There's just enough wind to keep a boat going – and there's a boat!" he exclaimed, pointing to the boat lying at anchor at the edge of the water as if he had made a discovery which was to render this weary world happy for evermore. "What do you say to going for a little sail, Miss Lisle?"
He put the question very much as one truant from school might put it to another, only a little more timorously.
"It would be splendid, a thing to be remembered. Oh, don't say no! I've set my heart upon it – ."
"Why should you not go?" said Leslie, trying to smile, and to keep from her eyes the wistful longing which his audacious suggestion had aroused.
"By myself!" he said, reproachfully, and with a kind of high-minded wonder. "I wouldn't be so selfish. Come, Miss Lisle – I – I mean we – may never have another chance like this. You don't get such nights as this in England often. And you need not be nervous. I can manage a boat in half a gale. But never mind if you think you wouldn't be safe."
This may have been a stroke of artfulness or pure ingenuousness; it settled the matter.
"I have never been afraid in my life – that I remember," said Leslie, conscientiously.
"Then that settles it!" he said, in that tone of free joyousness which appeals to a woman more than any tone a man can use. "Here we are – and by Jove, here's a real sea-monster asleep in the boat. Hallo, there!" he called out to an old man who lay curled up in the bottom of the boat.
Leslie laughed softly.
"It is of no use calling to him," she said. "He is stone deaf. It is old Will, and he is waiting for the turn of the tide."
"Like a good many more of us," said Yorke, cheerfully, and he was about to shake the man, but Leslie put her hand on his arm and stayed him.
"I – I think I had better wake him," she said. "He is old, and not very good-tempered, and – ."
"I see. All right," said Yorke. "I'll keep here in the background. If he refuses to go tell him we'll take his boat and do without him."
Leslie bent over the gunwale, and touched the old man gently. He stirred after a moment or two, and got up on his elbow, frowning at her.
Leslie indicated by expressive pantomime that they wanted to go for a sail, and, after glancing at the sky and at Yorke, the old fellow nodded surlily, and got out of the boat.
Yorke helped him to push the boat into the water.
"And now how are you going to get in?" he said to Leslie, but before she could answer the question old Will took her in his arms and carried her bodily into the boat.
Leslie smiled.
"He is a very self-willed old man, and no one in Portmaris interferes with or contradicts him, perhaps because he is deaf."
"I see," said Yorke. "I never realized until to-night the great advantages of that affliction."
He went forward as he spoke to assist with the sail, but the old man surlily waved him back into the stern.
"All right, William, I'll steer then," he said; but he had no sooner got hold of the tiller than Will angrily signed to him to release it, and pointed to Leslie.
"I think he wants me to steer," she said, with a faint blush. "I am often out sailing with him."
"He evidently regards me as a land lubber, whatever that is," said Yorke. "But, right! the password for to-night is, 'Don't cross old William!'"
He dropped down at her feet and leaned his head upon his hand, and sighed with supreme, unbounded content, and there was silence for a few minutes as the boat glided out to sea; then he said:
"Do you think old William would fly into a paroxysm of rage if I offered him a pipe of tobacco, Miss Lisle?"
"You might try," said Leslie, and the tone of her voice was like an echo of his. The two truants were enjoying themselves, and had no thought of the schoolmaster – just then.
Yorke took out his pouch, and flung it with dextrous aim into the old man's lap. He took it up, glowered at the donor for a moment, then nodded surlily, and, filling his pipe, pitched the pouch back.
"We still live!" said Yorke, and he was about to fill his own pipe, but remembered himself and stopped.
"Please smoke if you wish to," said Leslie, "I do not mind. We must not go far," she added.
"Not farther than Quebec or, say, Boulogne," said Yorke. "All right, Miss Lisle, we'll turn directly you say so. How delightful this is! I may have been happier in the course of an ill-spent life, but I don't remember it. Are you sorry you came? Please answer truthfully, and don't mind my feelings."
But Leslie did not answer. The strange feeling which had haunted her as she left the house was growing more distinct and defiant, stronger and more aggressive. Was it really she, Leslie Lisle, who was sailing over the moonlit sea with this careless and light-hearted young man, or should she wake presently in her tiny room in Sea View and find it all a dream?
Happy? Was this novel sensation, as of some vague undefined joy, happiness or what?
She was wise to leave the question unanswered!
Yorke smoked in silence for a minute or two, then he turned on his elbow so that he could look up at her.
"Miss Lisle," he said, "were you looking for something when you came down the beach just now? I ask because I thought you looked rather troubled – ."
"But you were asleep!" said Leslie.
He colored, and his eyes dropped.
"I've given myself away," he said, penitently. "No, Miss Lisle, I wasn't asleep. But I thought it better to pretend, as the children say, lest you should take fright and run away."
Leslie looked away from him.
"You are angry? Well, it serves me right. But don't think of it. Try and forgive me if you can, for I was half asleep, and I was dreaming of you – there, I've offended you again! But don't you know how you can dream though you are wide awake? I was wondering whether I should see you again – there was no harm in that, was there? – wondering whether I should have seen you or spoken to you at all if it hadn't been for Dick – . By the way, how is Dick?"
"He is all right," she said, the tension caused by his former words suddenly relieved, "but I do not think he will ever forgive you for saving his life."
"I'm afraid not," he said. "But you have not answered my question yet."
"Which one?" asked Leslie, with a smile.
"Whether you had lost anything," he said.
"Yes, I had," she replied, in a low voice.
He put his hand in his waistcoat-pocket, and took out the ring and held it up.
"Is this it?" he said, and his voice was suddenly grave and serious.
Leslie took it from his fingers.
"Thank you. Yes," she said. "Where did you find it?"
He was silent a moment as if lost in thought, then he said, as if with an effort:
"On the beach; just where you had been sitting this afternoon. You dropped it, I suppose?"
"Yes," said Leslie.
There was a pause.
"You are glad to get it back?"
"Yes," she said, looking straight in front of her.
"An old favorite, Miss Lisle?" his eyes fixed on the beautiful face over which the moonbeams fell lovingly.
"N-o," she said, the faint color creeping into her cheeks.
"No! But you were glad to get it back. You didn't seem so very glad, you know."
"No, I was not so very glad," she said, almost inaudibly.
He seemed relieved, and yet rather doubtful still.
"It's singular," he said. "But this is the second thing of yours I have found to-day."
"Yes."
"And they say that if you find two things in one day you are sure to lose something yourself," he murmured, a serious, intent look coming into his dark eyes.
"But the day has gone, and you have not lost anything!" said Leslie, with a smile.
His eyes dropped from his intense regard of her face.
"I am not so sure!" he said.
Did she hear him?
CHAPTER VII.
THE DUKE'S SNEERS
The boat sails on. Leslie has no mother to watch over her and warn her of sinning against the great goddess Propriety; and as there is no harm to him who thinks none, Leslie is not troubled by conscience because she is out sailing on this Heaven sent evening with a young man and only deaf William for chaperon.
Perhaps this is because of the peculiar nature of the young man. There is no shyness about Yorke, and his manner is just of that kind to inspire confidence; he treats Leslie with a mixture of frankness and respect which could not be greater if he had known her for years instead of a few hours only; and it is but fair to add that his manner toward a duchess would be just the same.
He is happy, is enjoying himself to the utmost, and he assuredly does not trouble his head about the proprieties. But all the same, he is silent after that last remark of his, which Leslie may or may not have heard.
He is lying across the boat, so that without much effort he can see her face. What a lovely face it is, he thinks, and how thoughtful. Is she thinking of that letter he gave her, or of the ring? And who gave her that? It ought not to matter to him, and yet the question worries him not a little. He dismisses it with a half audible "Heigh-ho!"
"I suppose these are what are called dancing waves?" he says at last. "Are you fond of dancing, Miss Leslie? But of course you are."
Leslie lets her dark gray eyes fall on his handsome upturned face as if she had been recalled to earth.
"Oh, yes," she says. "All women are, are they not? But I do not get much dancing. It is years since I was at a party. My father is not strong, and dislikes going out, and – well, there is no one else to go with me; besides, I should not leave him."
He nods thoughtfully, and some idea of what her life must be dawns upon him.
"You must lead a very quiet life," he says.
Leslie smiles.
"Yes, very, very quiet," she assents.
"What do you do to amuse yourself?" he asks.
Leslie thinks a moment.
"Oh," she says, cheerfully, and without a shadow of discontent in her voice or in her face, "I take walks, when my father does not want me, but he usually likes me to stay with him while he is painting; and sometimes William takes me for a sail, and there is the piano. My father likes me to play while he is at work; but when he does not I read."
"And is that all?" he says, raising himself on his elbow that he may better see her face.
"All?" she repeats. "What else is there? It seems a great deal."
He does not answer, but he thinks of the women he knows, the idle women who are always restless and discontented unless they are deep in some excitement, riding, driving, ball and theater going; and as he thinks of the difference between their lives and this girl's, there rises in his breast a longing to brighten her life if only for a few hours a day.
"Well," he says, "it sounds rather slow. And – and have you led this kind of life long?"
"As long as I can remember," replies Leslie. "Papa and I have been alone together ever since I was a little mite, and – yes, it has always been the same."
"And you never go to a theater, a dance, a concert?"
Leslie laughs softly.
"Never is a big word," she says. "Oh, yes, when we are in London my father sometimes but very seldom takes me to a theater, and now and again there are dances at the boarding houses we stay at."
Yorke almost groans. How delightful it would be to take this beautiful young creature for a whole round of theaters, to see her dressed in full war paint, to watch those dark gray eyes light up with pleasant and girlish joy.
"And which are you most fond of?" he asks. "Walking, sailing, playing, reading?"
She thinks again.
"I don't know. I'm very fond of the country, and enjoy my walks, but then I am also fond of sailing, and music, and reading. Do you know the country round here?"
He shakes his head.
"No, I only came to-day, you know."
"Ah, yes," she says, and she says it with a faint feeling of surprise; it seems to her as if he had been here at Portmaris for a week at least. "There is a very lovely place called St. Martin; it is about twelve miles out. There is an old castle, or the remains of one, and from the top of it you can see – well, nearly all the world, it seems."
"That must be worth going to," he says, and an idea strikes him. "My cousin – I mean Mr. Temple, you know – would like to see that."
"Yes," says Leslie. "But he could not walk so far."
"No. Do you mean to say you can?"
Leslie laughs softly.
"Oh, yes; I have walked there and back several times."
"You must be very strong!"
"Yes, I think I am. I am always well; yes, I suppose I am strong."
He still sighs at her; the graceful figure is so slight that he finds it difficult to realize her doing twenty-four miles. The women he knows would have a fit at the mere thought of such an undertaking.
"I think to-morrow is going to be a fine day," he says, looking up at the cloudless sky with a business-like air.
"Yes," says Leslie, as if she were first cousin to the clerk of the weather. "It's going to be fine to-morrow."
"Well, then," he says, "I'll try and get something and drive my cousin over to – what's the name of the place with the castle?"
"St. Martin."
"Yes. The worst of it is that he – I mean my cousin, and not St. Martin – so soon gets bored if he hasn't some one more amusing than I am to keep him company; you see, he's an invalid, and crotchety."
"Poor fellow!" murmurs Leslie. "And yet he is so kind and generous," she adds as she thinks of the fifty pounds he has given for the "picture."
"Yes, indeed!" he assents. "The best fellow that ever drew breath, for all his whims and fancies; and he can't help having those, you know. He would like to go to St. Martin to-morrow, especially if you – do you think we could persuade you and Mr. Lisle to accompany us?"
Leslie looks at him almost startled, then the color comes into her face, and her eyes brighten.
"It would be awfully good-natured of you if you would," he goes on, quickly, and as if he knew he was demanding a great sacrifice of her "awfully good nature."
"My father – ." Leslie shakes her head. "I am afraid he would not go; he will want to paint if the day is fine."
"He can paint at St. Martin," he breaks in, eagerly. "There must be no end of sketches, studies, whatever you call it, there, you know. I wish you'd ask him! It would do my cousin so much good, and – and," the arch hypocrite falters as he meets the innocent, eagerly wistful eyes, "though I dare say you won't care for the dusty drive, and have seen quite enough of the place, still, you'd be doing a good action, don't you know, and – all that. It will cheer my cousin up sooner than anything."
"Very well," says Leslie. "I will ask my father. But it will not matter if we do not go. You must persuade Mr. Temple."
"Mr. – . Oh, my cousin, yes," he says, with sudden embarrassment. "Yes, of course. Thank you! It is awfully good of you."
Leslie looks at him, her color deepening; then she laughs softly.
"Why, I want to go, too!" she says. "There is no goodness in it."
Yorke Auchester's glance falls before her guileless eyes.
"Then that settles it," he says, confidently. "What point is that out there, Miss Lisle?"
Leslie starts.
"That is Ragged Points!" she replies. "I had no idea we had come so far; please tell him I am going to put the boat round; it must be very late!"
"No, it isn't," he says. "I can tell by the moon. Can't we go a little farther?"
But she ports the helm, and old William, without a word, swings the sail over, and the boat's nose is pointing to land.
Yorke looks at Portmaris, asleep in the moonlight, regretfully.
"That's the worst of being thoroughly happy and comfortable," he says. "It always comes to an end and you have to come back. What a pace we are going, too!" he adds, almost in a tone of complaint.
"The wind is with us," says Leslie.
"I should like to stay at Portmaris and buy a boat," he says, after a moment or two. "It would be very jolly."
Leslie smiles.
"It is not always fine even at Portmaris," she says. "Sometimes the waves are mountain high, and the sea runs up over the quay as if it meant to wash the village away."
"Well, I shouldn't mind that," he remarks. "I wonder why one lives in London? One is always grunting at and slanging it, and yet one hangs on there." He sighs inaudibly as he thinks of what it must be to-night, with its feverish crowd, its glaring lights, its yelling cabmen and struggling horses; thinks of the folly, and, alas! the wickedness, and glances at the lovely, peaceful face above him with a great yearning – and regret.
"I like London," says Leslie. "But then I go there so seldom, that it is a holiday place to me."
"I know," he responds. "Yes, I can understand that. And I like Portmaris because it is a holiday place to me, I suppose."
Leslie smiles.
"I hope you will not catch cold and be all the worse for this holiday," she says.
He laughs.
"There is no fear of that. I never felt better in my life."
"You must sit firm now," she warns him. "I am going to drive the boat on to the sand."
"Here already!" he remarks, as the keel of the boat touches bottom, and the sails run down with a musical thud; and he steps over the side, and so suddenly that the boat lurches over after him.
He puts out his strong arm to stay her from falling, while old William curses the "land lubber" in accents low but deep.
"I'm about as awkward in a small boat as a hippopotamus," he says, remorsefully. "Will you let me help you ashore?"
He means "carry you," and he holds out his arms, but Leslie shrinks back ever so slightly, and old William comes to the side of the boat and picks her up as a matter of course.
Yorke slips a sovereign into the old man's horny palm, and William, who is not dumb as well as deaf, would probably open his lips now, but for astonishment and amazed delight. He does, however, grin.
As the two walk up the beach Yorke looks behind him at the moonlit sea and the boats, and shakes his head.
"It was a shame to come in," he says, "but never mind, perhaps – ." He stops, not daring to finish the sentence, but he feels as if he would cheerfully give half the amount of the check in his pocket for such another sail in the same company.
The quay is empty, the street silent, but as they go up it they see the crippled "Mr. Temple" leaning against the door of Marine Villa.
His keen eyes rest upon them both good-naturedly.
"Where have you been?" he asks.
"Where you ought to have been, Dolph," replies Yorke. "On the water. You can't imagine what it is like."
"Oh, yes, I can," says the duke. "But I am – too old for moonlight sails. I am a day-bird. Have you enjoyed it, Miss Lisle?"
Leslie smiles for answer.
"Look here, Dolph," says Yorke, with affected carelessness. "What do you say to driving out to a place called St. Martin to-morrow? I'm going to try and persuade Miss Lisle and her father to show us the way."
The duke looks at her.
"I shall be very glad," he says. "Will you come, Miss Lisle?"
"If my father – ," begins Leslie, and the duke interrupts her.
"We ought to send a formal invitation," he says, with a smile. "Will you give Mr. Lisle our compliments, Miss Lisle, and tell him how much the Duke of Rothbury and Mr. Temple will be indebted to him if you and he will accompany them on a drive to-morrow."
Leslie looks from one to the other for a moment as if she did not understand. The Duke of Rothbury! Can he be jesting?
The duke struggles with a smile as he sees her astonishment, then he says, casually:
"I hope you found the duke a good sailor, Miss Lisle."
Leslie glances at Yorke, who stands staring at his fishermen's boots, with a moody and not well pleased expression on his face.
"I nearly upset the boat," he says, as if to account for his change of countenance.
"It did not matter," she says. "We were on the sands. Yes, I will tell my father, and – thank you very much."
If the duke expected her to be overwhelmed by the announcement of the title he is doomed to disappointment. The first sensation of surprise over, Leslie is as calm and self-possessed as before.
"Good-night," she says, in her sweet, low voice, and a moment afterward the door of Sea View is closed upon her.
The duke looked at his cousin's downcast face with a whimsical smile.
"How well she took it!" he said. "A London girl of the most accomplished type could not have concealed her flutters with greater ease."
"She had nothing to conceal," said Yorke, with averted eyes. "It didn't matter to her that – that you called me a duke. Why should it?"
"Why should it! My dear Yorke, you have grown simple during your moonlight sail. Oh, she was confused and flustered, believe me; but all her sex are actresses from the cradle. Give me your hand, and let us go in."