He was wan and
worn and pale,--a man evidently dying, the oil of whose lamp was all
burned out; but still as he turned his eyes up to the woman's face
there was a remnant of that look of graceful faineant nobility which
had always distinguished him. He had never done any good, but he
had always carried himself like a duke, and like a duke he carried
himself to the end.
"He is decidedly better than he was this morning," said Lady
Glencora.
"It is pretty nearly all over, my dear. Sit down, Marie. Did they
give you anything after your journey?"
"I could not wait, Duke."
"I'll get her some tea," said Lady Glencora. "Yes, I will. I'll do it
myself. I know he wants to say a word to you alone." This she added
in a whisper.
But sick people hear everything, and the Duke did hear the whisper.
"Yes, my dear;--she is quite right. I am glad to have you for a
minute alone. Do you love me, Marie?"
It was a foolish question to be asked by a dying old man of a young
woman who was in no way connected with him, and whom he had never
seen till some three or four years since.
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