Leslie laughs, and laughs again as he comes up, red in the face, and with a Scotch wrap in his hand.
"Are you so cold?" she asks.
"Very," he responds. "It's going to snow, I fancy."
"Why, it is quite close," she says, removing her eyes for a moment from the horses to glance at him with smiling surprise. "It seems hotter than it has been all day."
As she speaks, a low rumbling rolls over their heads and a flash of light cuts across the sky.
"That is lightning," she exclaims.
"It was rather like it," he admits, dryly.
"Did you bring any gamps?" asks the duke.
"Nary one," replies Yorke, grimly. "Slang away, I can bear it—and I deserve it," he mutters, glancing at the girlish figure beside him.
Mr. Lisle looks round absently.