le Duc de Chateaurien handed Lady
Mary Carlisle down the steps, an achievement which had figured in the
ambitions of seven other gentlemen during the evening.
"Am I to be lef'in such onhappiness?" he said in a low voice. "That rose
I have beg' for so long--"
"Never!" said Lady Mary.
"Ah, I do not deserve it, I know so well! But--"
"Never!"
"It is the greatness of my onworthiness that alone can claim your
charity; let your kin' heart give this little red rose, this great alms,
to the poor beggar."
"Never!"
She was seated in the chair. "Ah, give the rose," he whispered. Her
beauty shone dazzlingly on him out of the dimness.
"Never!" she flashed defiantly as she was closed in. "Never!"
"Never!"
The rose fell at his feet.
"A rose lasts till morning," said a voice behind him.
Turning, M. de Chateaurien looked beamingly upon the face of the Duke of
Winterset.
"'Tis already the daylight," he replied, pointing to the east.
"Monsieur, was it not enough honor for you to han' out madame, the aunt
of Lady Mary? Lady Rellerton retain much trace of beauty. 'Tis strange
you did not appear more happy."
"The rose is of an unlucky color, I think," observed the Duke.
"The color of a blush, my brother."
"Unlucky, I still maintain," said the other calmly.
"The color of the veins of a Frenchman. Ha, ha!" cried the young man.
"What price would be too high? A rose is a rose! A good-night, my
brother, a good-night.
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