He looked puzzled for a moment, then a smile broke over his face and he laughed as he turned his face to her.
"I—I must have been dreaming, Leslie!" he said joyfully. "Yes, that's it! What an idiot I am! I forgot we were married yesterday! Think of it! Where are we? On the steamer—in Italy—where? My—my head feels queer, and the things work about me. Just—just tell me again, dearest."
"It is Leslie—your wife," she murmured, her love telling her what he wanted.
"Yes, yes!" he murmured, with a laugh of infinite content. "Married yesterday, of course; stupid things, dreams. Leslie! My wife! Married yesterday!"
Then with a sigh of blissful assurance and perfect peace he closed his eyes and fell asleep on her bosom.
Lucy stood crying, the tears were rolling down the duke's wan cheeks, and even the doctor found it necessary to turn his head away.
Then Lucy found herself outside the room sobbing on Ralph Duncombe's shoulder.
"Oh, I am so happy, so happy!" she sobbed. "It is all right now!"
"All right?" he said with masculine density.