Mr. Lisle looked at him helplessly, as if he had been asked a conundrum which no one could be expected to answer.
"Because there is always such a thundering fuss about it," said Yorke, stalking off.
The duke looked after him for a minute or two, apparently lost in thought, then he turned to Lisle again.
"You are an artist, sir?" he said.
Mr. Lisle flushed.
"I am, at least, an humble worshiper at the throne," he replied, in the low, nervous voice with which he always addressed strangers, and he resumed his painting.
The duke signed to Grey to help him to get out of the chair, which was so placed that he could not see the canvas.
Grey came round, and in opening the apron let the duke's stick fall. Leslie hesitated a moment, then stepped forward and picked it up. The duke took it from her with a faint flush on his pale, hollow cheeks.
"Thank you," he said. "I am afraid I could not get on without it. At one time I could not walk even with its aid. Please don't say you are sorry or pity me," he added, with an air of levity that barely concealed his sensitive dread of any expression of sympathy. "Everybody says that, you know."