"Why? Because he is a duke. If he were old and ugly, and—and twisted as I am, he would still be run after by all sorts and conditions of men—and women," he added, but in a lower voice, as if he were half ashamed of his cynicism.
Leslie understood, and her face flushed for a moment; but it was not with guilt, but the indignation of a pure-hearted girl.
"You mean that they—women—would pretend to like him because of his rank?" she said, quietly, but with gentle gravity.
"That's what I meant," he assented, eyeing her attentively. "There isn't a woman in the world whose heart doesn't leap at the thought of becoming a duchess."
"It is not true!" she said, her eyes flashing down at him with purest indignation. "It is—but you are only speaking in jest, Mr. Temple," and she smiled at the warmth she had been hurried into.
He looked hard at her.
"I am not jesting," he said; "but stating the solemn, shameful fact."
She gazed down at him almost pityingly.
"Ah, you do not know women at all," she said. "No," with a shake of her head, as he opened his lips. "You may know a great many, and they may be very great ladies, and a few of them may be as worldly as you say they are, but not many. I will not believe that."
He fingered his chin with restless fingers, and looked from right to left.