"Yes," said Yorke, staring at the carpet moodily.
"I suppose I must hang on until you are married," said the duke, as cheerfully and coolly as if he were talking of somebody else. "Once or twice lately I have been inclined to throw up the sponge, but somehow I've got a hankering to see you settled; and then I suppose I shall want to live long enough to take the next heir on my knee. Men are never satisfied. But I don't suppose I shall be able to hold out till then."
"For heaven's sake, don't talk such arrant nonsense!" Yorke said, emphatically. "You are no worse than you were."
The duke smiled at him calmly but significantly.
"My dear fellow, I am hanging on to life by my eyelashes," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone.
"You must get back to England as quickly as possible," said Yorke, trying to speak in an assured and perfectly confident voice. "There is nothing like England in the winter, after all. Come back and let Eleanor nurse you."
"That's an inducement, certainly," said the duke. "Eleanor and I were always good friends."
There was silence for a few moments; then the duke, after glancing once or twice at Yorke's grave face, said, in a low voice that faltered:
"There—there is no news of—of—"
He stopped.