"You can do no more than tell the truth," I remarked.
"Tell me what he is like—the Duke?" she asked abruptly.
"He is a typical man of his class," I answered. "He is stiff, obstinate, punctilious, with an extreme sense of honour, to gratify which, by-the-bye, he has just deliberately pauperized himself. He will not remind you in the least of Lord Blenavon."
"I should imagine not," she answered.
Then there was a short silence, and I could see that she was crying under her veil. I laid my hand upon hers.
"I am afraid," I said gently, "that I have misled you a little. You are worrying about me, and it isn't half so necessary as you imagine. You thought me mad to listen to my father's offer, and a coward to give up those papers to Ray. Isn't that so?"
My words seemed to electrify her. She pushed up her veil and looked at me eagerly.
"Well? Go on!" she exclaimed.
"There are some things," I said, "which I have made up my mind to tell no one. But at least I can assure you of this. I am not nearly in so desperate a position as you and Colonel Ray seem to think."
She caught hold of my hand and grasped it convulsively. The hard lines seemed to have fallen away from her face. She smiled tremulously.