“It is the greatness of my onworthiness that alone can claim your charity; let your kin' heart give this little red rose, this great alms, to the poor beggar.”
“Never!”
She was seated in the chair. “Ah, give the rose,” he whispered. Her beauty shone dazzlingly on him out of the dimness.
“Never!” she flashed defiantly as she was closed in. “Never!”
“Never!”
The rose fell at his feet.
“A rose lasts till morning,” said a voice behind him.
Turning, M. de Chateaurien looked beamingly upon the face of the Duke of Winterset.
“'Tis already the daylight,” he replied, pointing to the east. “Monsieur, was it not enough honor for you to han' out madame, the aunt of Lady Mary? Lady Rellerton retain much trace of beauty. 'Tis strange you did not appear more happy.”
“The rose is of an unlucky color, I think,” observed the Duke.