“I think not, sir,” said Lord Neville. “Her name is Doris Marlowe.”
“Doris Marlowe,” repeated the marquis; “a pretty name. No, I don’t know it. There is no county family hereabouts, that I remember, of the name of Marlowe.”
“She is not a member of a county family; she is an actress,” said Lord Neville.
He looked up steadily, expecting to see the cold, haughty face break into an expression of rage, fury, scorn; but there was not the least emotion displayed on the thin, curled lips and glittering eyes.
“An actress; really! Dear me! This is very—entertaining! I was under the impression that only callow schoolboys ever fell in love with actresses. I should have thought—pray forgive me—that you were too old, if not too sensible, to be guilty of such a gaucherie.”
Lord Neville pressed his foot down upon the Turkey carpet, and sat himself squarely in his chair, in his effort to command his temper. He had resolved that nothing the marquis should say should rouse him to anger or to retaliation.
“An actress! I don’t think the Stoyles have ever had an actress in the family; and some of us have gone pretty low down for our wives, too!”
Lord Neville bit his lip.
“If you knew Miss Marlowe, sir, I think you would scarcely consider that I was condescending in asking her to marry me.”
The marquis stared at him as if he were some curious specimen, worthy of calm and careful consideration.