"What are you talking of, Leslie?" he said peevishly. "You seem very strange this morning, and so you were last night."
"I know, I know, dear!" she broke in with something between a sigh and a sob. "Don't mind me. I am not very well. You want the receipt?" she sprang to the writing table. "There it is, and the note. Yes, yes! It will come right. I know it will; and—and—oh, how hot it is! I must have air, air!"
She caught up her hat, and with the receipt and note in her hand, ran to the door.
"I shall see Mr. Temple, papa, and I will give him these."
"And tell him," he called after her, "that I make it a condition that the picture shall be exhibited; mind that, Leslie!"
"Yes, yes!" she responded, and ran out.
She drew her breath hard as she paused for a moment on the doorstep, then she hurried to the quay.
A fisherman was drying his net in the sun, but there was no one else there, and she walked up and down, the note in her hand, repeating to herself the formula of hope; the woman, Finetta, had lied to her and deceived her. All would be well. Yorke would be her Yorke still!
She had not been walking thus very long before the bath chair, wheeled by Grey, was seen coming on to the quay.
She hurried toward it, and the duke motioned to Grey to stop.