He strikes at the sandy pebbles which form the floor of the good hermit's cave, with his stick.
"Oh—oh, it's right enough to call a duke 'your grace,'" he says, hurriedly, "but I'd rather you didn't call me so."
"I'm glad it was right," she rejoins, with an air of relief. "I thought that perhaps I'd committed some awful blunder."
"No, no," he says. "But don't, please. I have a decided objection to it. You see I'm rather a republican than otherwise—everybody is a republican nowadays, don't you know." Oh, Yorke, Yorke! "There will be no dukes or any other titles presently."
"But until that time arrives what should one call you?" asks Leslie, not unreasonably. "Is 'my lord' right?"
"It's better," he admits, "but I don't care much about that from friends, you know. I'm afraid you think it's rather presumptuous of me to call you a friend."
"'An enemy' would sound rude and ungrateful after your and Mr. Temple's kindness," she says, as lightly as before.
"My name is Yorke—one of 'em, and it's the name I like best. I dare say that you have noticed that Mr.—Mr. Temple calls me by it?"
"Yes," says Leslie.
"So it sounds more familiar to me, and—and nicer. I suppose a man has a right to be called what he likes."