“I sympathize with the people,” said Lord Neville, firmly.
The marquis poured out a glass of wine and smiled coldly.
“Yes—you are young,” he said. “But I’ll admit the thing wants looking into, and I’m too old to undertake the inspection.”
Lord Neville raised his head. He did not want to talk about Ireland, but about Doris Marlowe. And now, he thought, was the time. The old port stood beside them, the door was closed. Lady Grace and Spenser Churchill were in the drawing-room.
He looked at the cold, haughty face and plunged at his task.
“I’m afraid I can’t go into the Irish question to-night, sir,” he said.
“Indeed?” said the marquis, leaning back.
“No,” said Lord Cecil, quietly; “I have a personal matter I wish to speak to you about.”
The marquis eyed him calmly and patiently.
“Personal matters claim first attention. What is it? Is it money?”