Yorke looked into the honest face, into the steadfast eyes, for a moment; then he sighed.
"You are right. I was never worthy of her! What man of us all is?"
"None!" said Ralph. "But, notwithstanding, I say, go and ask her to be your wife, Lord Auchester."
Yorke seemed staggered by this knockdown advice, and hung his head. Then he looked up, breathing hard.
"I will," he said, and he strode into the house, Ralph Duncombe remaining outside.
Leslie had sunk into a chair, and Lucy was kneeling beside her, holding her hands and murmuring those inarticulate words of sympathy and consolation which only women can utter—for at such times a man is always an imbecile and a fool.
Yorke strode in and bent over the chair.
"Leslie," he said, in a hoarse, broken voice. "Leslie, I have come back to you. I don't know what to say to you, except that I love you, that I have never ceased to love you since the first day we met there at Portmaris. Will you forgive me? Will you be my wife, Leslie?"
A profound silence followed his impassioned words. Lucy, kneeling, held Leslie's hands.
"Speak to him, dear," she whispered, the tears rolling down her face. "Speak to him, Leslie."