Lady Grace looked round in astonishment, and saw that Lord Cecil had stepped from one of the windows. Spenser Churchill’s quick ear had heard him, and hence the swift change in the topic of conversation.
“Mr. Churchill begging again, Lady Grace?” said Lord Cecil. “Beware of him; he never comes near you without an attempt on your purse. What’s it for now, Spenser; the ‘Indigent Washerwomen,’ or the ‘Chimney Sweeps’ Orphans?’ He’s chairman or secretary of half-a-dozen charities—aren’t you, Spenser?—and he won’t let you rest until you’ve put yourself down for lady patroness for half of ’em!” and he laughed the short, frank laugh which was so refreshing a contrast to Spenser Churchill’s oily one, that Lady Grace felt as if it washed the other away.
“It’s the ‘Indigent Basketmakers’ Children,’ my dear Cecil,” said Spenser Churchill, smoothly. “Dear Lady Grace has consented to become one of our lady patronesses, have you not, Lady Grace?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, indifferently; “and now having hooked me, I’ll leave you to go for Lord Cecil,” and with a nod and a smile to the latter, she turned and entered the house.
Spenser Churchill looked after her with a rapt gaze of benevolent admiration.
“What a beautiful young creature!” he murmured softly; “and as good as she is beautiful!”
“Eh?” said Cecil, seating himself on the balcony, lighting an immense cigar, and offering his case to Spenser Churchill, who shrank back and put up his hands with a gesture of alarm.
“I never smoke anything so—er—huge and strong. But is she not as good as she is beautiful, now?”
“She is beautiful enough, certainly,” said Lord Cecil, carelessly; “as to her goodness, why, yes, I suppose she is good enough. All women are good, especially pretty ones.”
“I—see,” murmured Churchill, with his head on one side; “you’d say that—er—there was a faint sign of, shall we say, temper in dear Lady Grace? Well, perhaps—but—oh, really you must be mistaken, my dear Cecil; so charming a creature!”