“Not half!” she retorted. “I shall be on the terrace, Mr. Churchill.”
He bowed and smiled; then he turned to the marquis.
“There used to be a very fine old port, marquis,” he said.
The marquis glanced at the butler, who went out, and returned presently, carefully carrying a bottle in a wicker frame, and Mr. Spenser Churchill sipped the famous wine with angelic enjoyment.
“There is nothing like port,” he murmured. “Nothing. Yes, marquis, you look the picture of health. Ah, my dear Neville, depend upon it, that the moralists are right after all, and that, if one would enjoy life at its fullest, the thing is to be good!” and he smiled beamingly at the marquis, who had, for a generation, been called: “Wicked Lord Stoyle.”
Lord Neville glanced at the pale, cold face of his uncle, expecting some cutting retort, but the marquis only smiled.
“You were always a moralist, Churchill,” he said. “But your advice comes rather late for Neville, who has, I’m afraid, made acquaintance with the prodigal’s husks pretty often.”
“And now comes back to find the fatted calf killed for him,” sang Mr. Spenser Churchill, sweetly.
The marquis rose.
“Don’t let me interfere with your port,” he said.