Yorke Auchester took a draught of the admirable claret which Grey had brought down with him, before replying.
"I?" he said, carelessly. "No. Why should I? What would be the use. She doesn't expect anything better than a penwiper or a shilling prayer book from a pauper like me, and she has tin enough to buy a million of 'em if she wants them," and he attacked the custard.
The duke leaned back in his chair, and looked at the handsome face of his cousin, with its frank and free, and happily devil-may-care expression.
"I've a notion that Eleanor would value anything in the way of a penwiper or a prayer book you might give her, Yorke," he said.
"Not she. It's only your fancy."
"I think not," said the duke.
He was silent for a moment, then he said, thoughtfully and gravely:
"At the risk of repeating myself, I will say once more that it is a pity you are not the Duke of Rothbury, Yorke."
"Thanks, but a better man's got the berth, you see."
"And a still greater pity that you can't be the future one. But you can't, can you, Yorke?"