“I am satisfied,” she said, with a smile.
“And precious little you have to be satisfied with!” he said, “for I am a poor kind of viscount. I am entirely at the mercy of the great marquis—the Marquis of Stoyle! He forced me to leave the army, where I had a chance, and he keeps me on starvation allowance. Oh! you had better have waited and hooked your duke, Doris!”
She laughed softly, but the laugh was rather a grave one.
“What will the marquis say?” she asked, looking at him, with her brows drawn, her lovely eyes half-curious.
Lord Neville smiled.
“He will be sure to say something disagreeable; he always does.”
“But tell me,” she insisted, gently. “Or shall I tell you?”
“You couldn’t,” he said. “That beautiful face of yours couldn’t manage to look like the marquis’ hard, stony one, and certainly your voice that is just like music——”
“Shall I get up and curtsey?” she put in, with a faint smile.
“You needn’t; it’s no compliment. No, you couldn’t harden your voice to anything approaching the marquis’ steely, icy tones.”