Her face had grown crimson again, and she turned it from him for a moment, then faced him again.
“Well!” she said, “and if I do wish it, what then? Is it so unnatural? Are there many better matches, many better men than Cecil Neville?”
“Few, if any!” he assented, blandly. “He is young, handsome, popular, brave, and—a future marquis!” She picked at the moss in the crevice of the stone coping. “A very good match, indeed, and Lady Grace is worthy of such a partner, truly!”
“And you mean to do your best or your worst for the match?” he said, swiftly.
He took out a cigarette.
“May I?” he asked, then lit it, and leaning on the railing, surveyed the beautiful scene as if he were quite absorbed in peaceful contemplation, and had quite forgotten his companion and the subject of their conversation. Then he turned his head, and smiled at her. “No,” he said, slowly and softly, “I mean to do all I can to further the idea.”
She started slightly, and her lips parted in a faint sigh.
“You do! You—you mean to help me! and why?”
He was silent again, smoking with placid, serene enjoyment for a moment or two, then he replied:
“If I were to answer that I am prompted solely by a desire for your happiness——”