She made a movement of impatience.
“You see!” he said, reproachfully. “You would not believe me; so, what is the use? Suppose that we do not go into my motives. Let us, if it please you, decide that they are utterly selfish and bad, abandoned and wicked ones—will that do? Very well! After all, what do my motives matter? If I can help you, and I think I can, do not seek to go beyond the mere solid fact of my assistance. Leave the reasons alone. They can’t matter much, can they?” and he looked into her eyes with the bland and innocent gaze of a child.
She moved restlessly.
“If I could trust you!” she said, uneasily.
“I thought I had already proved myself worthy of confidence,” he said, simply; but there must have been some hidden significance in his words, for they brought the blood to Lady Grace’s face, and then left it pale and white to the lips.
“I—I——” she faltered.
“Oh, do not say anything of the past,” he murmured, soothingly. “Let us think of the present. We will speak plainly. It is the dear marquis’ wish that you should marry Lord Cecil Neville; you being gratified by his choice and willing to fall in with his views, an old and tried friend offering his services to you do not hesitate to avail yourself of them: I am the old and tried friend.”
The last words were more softly and cooingly spoken than any that had preceded them, but Lady Grace started up and looked at him suspiciously; he, however, met her scrutiny with his bland and innocent smile.
“If I really thought you would help me,” she said, doubtfully.
“You may think so, for I will,” he answered. “As I said, never mind my motives—they concern only myself. And how goes the business? Has our dear friend Cecil—eh?”