"Leone," he repeated, "that is a beautiful name. I have never heard it before; but I like it very much; it is musical and rare—two great things in a name."
"It is a German name," she said. "My uncle Robert hates it; he says it reminds him of Lion; but you know it is pronounced Leon. My mother read some German story that had the name in it and gave it to me."
"It suits you," he said, simply; "and I should not think there was another name in the world that would. I wonder," he added, with a shy laugh, "if you would like my name? It is Lancelot Chandos. My friends call me Lance."
"Yes, I like that. I know all the history of Sir Lancelot. I admire him; but I think he was a weak man—do not you?"
"For loving Queen Guinevere? I do not know. Some love is strength, not weakness," he replied.
Leone looked up at him again.
"Are you the son of a great lord?" she asked; "some one told me so."
"Yes; my father is Earl of Lanswell; and people would call him a great earl. He is rich and powerful."
"What has brought you, the son of a great earl, down to Rashleigh?" she asked.
"My own idleness, to begin with," he said. "I have been at Oxford more years than I care to count; and I have idled my time."