Then the bell rang, and he gave her his arm and took her into dinner.
All through the elaborate meal she seemed in the best and brightest of spirits, and her sallies of well-bred merriment called a smile even to the face of the marquis.
Lord Cecil noticed that he was less bitter than usual, and that he refrained from making the sneering and contemptuous remarks with which he usually adorned the conversation.
Spenser Churchill, too, appeared in his most benevolent and amiable mood, and grew quite pathetic as he talked of his pet charity for distressed chimney sweeps.
The dessert came, and then Lady Grace took up her fan and left the room, and Spenser Churchill, after a single glass of claret, rose, and saying: “Don’t let me disturb you two; I am going to ask Lady Grace for some music,” glided out of the room.
The moment had arrived for Lord Cecil’s announcement, and as he filled his glass, his face grew set and grave.
The marquis, instead of rising, seemed to linger over his wine, and leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful air. Once he glanced at Lord Cecil curiously.
“Have you heard the news from Ireland, Cecil?” he said.
Lord Cecil started, and set down his glass.
“No, sir. I have not seen the papers.”