On this couch lay the Duke of Rothbury. Though the day was warm, a fire burned in the grate, and a superb sable rug was tumbled on the couch as if the invalid had pulled it off and on restlessly. Three or four books lay on the floor, but he was not reading, and he looked up sharply as Yorke entered, and did not speak until Grey had closed the door upon them.
Then, as he held out his hand and his keen eyes scanned Yorke's face, he said:
"Do you think I have sent for you to crow over you, Yorke?"
Yorke stood and looked down at him for a moment without replying; then he said vaguely:
"Crow over me? What do you mean, Dolph?"
The duke raised himself on his elbow.
"Sit down," he said; "you look tired and knocked up. Is anything the matter?"
Yorke sank into a chair and avoided the keen eyes.
"Matter? What should be the matter?" he said evasively. "You don't look quite the thing; but I suppose the journey took it out of you?"
"Yes, it was the journey," said the duke dryly.