Montrose had been writing at an oaken table, on either side of which was a bracket of lights. At the sound of the voice he turned, and, at the sight of Nancy, he rose and stood looking at her as though she were an apparition.
Many times since, in her description of this interview, she told me that she received from him an impression as though he stretched forth his hand and touched her. She said, as well, that the erectness of his body and the fulness of his chest gave him the air of a conqueror who was invincible, while the pallor of his face and the glitter of his eye set him still further apart from anything usual.
It seemed a full minute that they stood thus taking notes openly of each other before she spoke again.
"I am Nancy Stair," she said quietly.
"Ah," the duke returned, coming forward with a smile, "the verse-maker?"
"I make verses," Nancy answered.
"Which have given me more pleasure than I have the power to tell," the duke responded with a bow.
"It is praise indeed, coming from John Montrose, who is no mean poet himself," Nancy said with a smile.
"I," the duke returned, "am no poet, Mistress Stair; but I have a 'spunk enough of glee' to enjoy the gift of others."
"One might think who overheard us, my lord duke," Nancy broke in with a laugh and the light of humor in her eyes by which she could make another smile at any time, "that we were collegians having a critical discussion. It was not concerning poetry that I came to you to-night, your grace. It was to ask a favor."