"And where will you go?"
"Abroad—India, Australia, America—anywhere: what does it matter? If I travelled to the ends of the earth, I could not fly my thoughts."
"And"—timidly—"what of her?"
"Nothing," he answers, roughly: "I will not talk of her again to you."
There is a low, apologetic knock at the door. Instantly I seat myself on the sofa in as dignified an attitude as I can assume, considering my hair is all awry and my eyelids crimson. 'Duke lowers the lamp prudently, and falls back to the hearthrug, standing with his hands clasped carelessly behind him, before he says, in a clear, distinct tone:—-
"Come in."
"Dinner is served," announces Tynon, softly, with the vaguest, discreetest of coughs. How is it that servants always know everything?
"Very good," returns Marmaduke, in his ordinary voice. "Let Mrs. Vernon know." Then, as though acting on a second thought:—-
"Tynon."
"Yes, sir."