Lord Cecil broke into a laugh.
“What on earth are you driving at?” he demanded.
“I driving at!” exclaimed Spenser Churchill, opening his eyes with an innocent stare. “What do you mean, my dear Cecil? What on earth do you mean?”
Lord Cecil clasped his hands round his knees, and looked at the round, smooth face and extended eyes with faint amusement.
“You’d make an excellent Chinese puzzle, Churchill,” he said. “If what you mean is to warn me against marrying Lady Grace——”
“My dear Cecil,” broke in the soft voice, pitched in a tone of strained horror.
“You can spare yourself the trouble, for I haven’t the least intention of doing so—at present.”
Spenser Churchill’s thick eyelids quivered almost imperceptibly; but beyond this faint sign, no other trace of any emotion was visible at this frank announcement.
“Really?” he said; “I thought—— But, my dear Cecil, don’t you consider her a most beautiful and charming woman? and—er—come now, after all, you would find it difficult to discover a more suitable partner, eh?”
Lord Cecil frowned.