They find the duke waiting for them at the bottom of the tower, and seeing them all together, he does not suspect that the two young people have been spending the whole afternoon tete-a-tete.
"I was just going off without you," he says, addressing all three, but looking at Leslie's face, which wears a rapt and dreamy expression.
"It's well you didn't," retorts Yorke. "You and Grey would never have reached home alive. Miss Leslie and I are the only persons who can manage these nags. But come on," and he glances upward—that cloud has grown considerably since they left the hermit's hut—and leads the way to the inn.
"Now, ma'am," he says to the landlady, in his frank, and genial way. "Got the kettle boiling? Right! Let us have some tea while the horses are being put to."
Then he goes round to the stable, inspects the horses, and is back in time to hand Leslie a cup of the beverage, which be the hour what it may, is always welcomed by fair women.
"Now up you get," he says, after surreptitiously tipping everybody—landlord, hostler, rosy-cheeked maid, all round. "Miss Leslie, we can't get on without you in front, you know," he remarks, as Leslie is about to go inside; and he helps her to the box.
The horses are fresh and eager for work, and for a time he drives, but presently he puts the reins in her hands.
"According to promise," he says. "Hold 'em tight while I," and he bends down and searches for something under the box seat.
"Oh, how beautifully they go," she says, half to herself. "What is it you are looking for, your gra—Lord Yorke?"
"Never you mind," he says. "You look after your horses."