He told himself that it was wholly absurd.

But there it was: with his money and influence the duke could do so much more for her than he could.

He consoled himself with the thought that after all the duke would be only carrying on his work.
On the Saturday afternoon they went, as was their wont, for a stroll through the woods; and the Honourable John Ruffin, who had so carefully gratified his great inborn interest in the human race that now he missed very little, observed that once or twice the duke paused and looked about him as if he missed something.
The next afternoon as they were starting, the duke said in a voice which was not as easy as it tried to be, and with an air that was distinctly shame-faced: "I say: we may as well take Pollyooly with us." The Honourable John Ruffin raised his eyebrows a little and said: "Oh, well--little pitchers have long ears, don't you know." "Oh, that's all right--that's all right, we needn't talk secrets," said the duke quickly; and he ran lightly up the stairs to fetch her.
It was a pleasant walk; and the Honourable John Ruffin was alive to the fact that the company of Pollyooly greatly improved it.

But at times to his astonishment he was no less distinctly conscious of the fact that two were company and three were none; and he was the third.
At dinner that night he said somewhat gloomily: "I wish Caroline would hurry up and start firmly to come back to you.
I miss Pollyooly." "Give her time--give her time," said the duke quickly.

"Besides the country is doing the child a lot of good." "Oh, it's all very well for you.