"Well," responded the duke, grimly, "I've an idea—don't trouble to contradict me, it isn't worth while—that Miss Leslie has succeeded in making an impression on your grace——."
"And that would be such an awful calamity, wouldn't it?" said Yorke, feeling his way.
The duke laughed cynically.
"No, I suppose not. You would ride away, like the man in the ballad, and leave her weeping. Not that the youngest and most unsophisticated girls weep much now, I believe; they dry their tears and look out for the next man."
"Dolph, for a man who loves and respects women—and I know you do——."
"Oh, do you?" snarled the duke, or, rather, the demon of pain that had got possession of him.
"Yes," said Yorke. "For one who loves and respects them, you talk strangely."
"Well, well. We don't want to squabble about women in general or this young woman in particular. All I mean to say is that, though usually I think they are well punished for their mercenary scheming, I've a sneaking fondness and pity for Leslie Lisle, and I don't want you to let her think that she has a chance of being a duchess. In short—well, of course, you have been flirting with her; you always do, you know. Well, leave her alone, and go back to London." He sighed. "That's good advice. We'll let her off this time."
Yorke stood motionless, with stern face.
"If I were the duke I have been masquerading as," he said, "I could not find a better woman or one——."