Yorke did her justice; she is not elated nor awed by the ducal title.
When she comes down to breakfast she finds her father posing in front of his picture, his thin hands clasped behind his back, his head bent; and as she kisses him he sighs rather querulously.
"Is anything the matter, dear?" she asks.
"I've got a headache," he replies. "I—I do not feel up to work, and I am so anxious to get on. How do you think it looks?"
Leslie draws him away from the easel to the table, and forces him gently into his chair.
"We will not look at it this morning, at any rate until we have had breakfast, dear," she says. "It is wonderful how much better and brighter this world and everything in it looks after a cup of coffee. But, papa, you must not work to-day, you must take a rest——."
"A rest!" he begins, impatiently.
"Yes; you know how often you say that working against the grain is time and energy wasted. And there is another reason, dear," she goes on, brightly. "We have an invitation for to-day!"
"A what?" he asks, querulously.