“I have a particular reason for asking,” he added.
"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. I wish you dreams of roses, red roses, only beautiful red, red roses!"
"Stay! Did you see the look she gave these street folk when they shouted for her? And how are you higher than they, when she knows? As high as yonder horse-boy!"