"Where did you get this gorgeous spread, Yorke?" inquires the duke.
"Oh, I was out foraging early this morning," he says, carelessly. "Now, Miss Leslie, you are the presiding genius. Of course the salt has been forgotten; it always is."
"No, it has not!" says Leslie, holding it up triumphantly. "Nothing has been forgotten. You have brought everything."
"Including an appetite," he says, brightly, and as he opens a bottle of champagne, he sings:
"The foaming wine of Southern France."
"Yes, I wonder how many persons who read that in their Tennyson realize that it is champagne?" says the duke, brightly.
They seat themselves—cushions have been brought from the wagon for Leslie and the duke—and the feast begins.
"Some chicken, Miss Leslie? This is going to be a failure as a picnic; it isn't going to rain," says Yorke.
"And I rather miss the cow which usually appears on the scene and scampers over the pie," says the duke. "I suppose your grace couldn't manage a cow on a tower."
Yorke looks at him, half angrily.