“I don’t know any daughters of noblemen, Jeffrey,” she said; “but I don’t think I would exchange places with any of them.”
He nodded, and laid his hand upon her head.
“No, no,” he said, moodily.
“No,” she said, with a faint laugh. “I would not exchange places with the highest lady in the land! To be able to move a theatre full of people to tears or laughter, that is better than being an earl’s daughter, is it not, Jeffrey?”
He started.
“Yes, yes,” he said, eagerly; “that is what I wanted you to feel! Any one can be an earl’s daughter, but few!—how few!—the Doris Marlowe who wrought an audience to enthusiasm to-night?”
She smiled up at him.
“And what is this that you are going to tell me, Jeffrey?”
He started, and his hand fell from her head.
“I—I—” he said, uncertainly, “I don’t think I’ll tell you to-night, Doris; it will keep. I’m not certain that it would make you happier; I’m half inclined to think that it would only make you miserable. No!—I won’t tell you. Go to bed, and forget——” He stopped.