“A gulf——”
“Which love can stride across,” he said. “That is, if you are going to draw up a list of comparisons! As if there could be any comparison between Doris Marlowe, the great actress, and Cecil Neville, the stupid dragoon!”
“And future marquis!” she said. “Ah, I know! Yes, there’s a gulf!”
“Look here, Doris,” he said, taking her hand, which she had withdrawn, and kissing each finger separately; “don’t talk nonsense. I’m a future marquis. All right. I don’t deny it.”
“You cannot.”
“Just so—I cannot. But I’m not a marquis at present. I’m simply Cecil Neville! I’m not even a dragoon, for—confound him!—the marquis made me retire! I’m simply nothing, while you—you!” he emphasized the pronoun by raising the edge of her dress and kissing it, “you are a great and famous actress——”
“And outside the pale of society,” she said, with sudden wisdom.
“Society!” he exclaimed, “what do I care for that? I never cared very much for it; at this moment I care less. You are society enough for me!”
No woman could have been otherwise than touched by his devotion; she allowed him to retain her hand.
“If you only knew what a sacrifice you are making, my darling!” he said, smilingly. “Why, presently you will appear in London, and will find the world at your feet; and they will all be in love with you, peasants—only there are no peasants in London—and peers! I daresay you would have an offer from a duke! Think of that! And you have pledged your troth to a simple viscount!”