"I could not wait, Duke."
"I'll get her some tea," said Lady Glencora. "Yes, I will. I'll do it myself. I know he wants to say a word to you alone." This she added in a whisper.
But sick people hear everything, and the Duke did hear the whisper. "Yes, my dear;—she is quite right. I am glad to have you for a minute alone. Do you love me, Marie?"
It was a foolish question to be asked by a dying old man of a young woman who was in no way connected with him, and whom he had never seen till some three or four years since. But it was asked with feverish anxiety, and it required an answer. "You know I love you, Duke. Why else should I be here?"
"It is a pity you did not take the coronet when I offered it you."
"Nay, Duke, it was no pity. Had I done so, you could not have had us both."
"I should have wanted only you."
"And I should have stood aloof,—in despair to think that I was separating you from those with whom your Grace is bound up so closely. We have ever been dear friends since that."
"Yes;—we have been dear friends. But—" Then he closed his eyes, and put his long thin fingers across his face, and lay back awhile in silence, still holding her by the other hand. "Kiss me, Marie," he said at last; and she stooped over him and kissed his forehead. "I would do it now if I thought it would serve you." She only shook her head and pressed his hand closely. "I would; I would. Such things have been done, my dear."