“I will take your word for that! At any rate, I won’t venture to contradict you; but you must permit me to express my satisfaction that Fate has spared me to that extent! I have no desire to add an actress to my list of acquaintances.”
Lord Neville inclined his head.
“This is exactly what I expected you to say, sir,” he said, quietly; “but I considered it my duty to tell you, and to ask your consent, as I should have asked my father’s, had he been living.”
“Thanks; you are very considerate,” said the marquis, with a fine sneer; “and do not mind me! Pray unbosom yourself! Treat me as if I were your father, and dilate upon the lady’s charms. Of course she is beautiful.”
“She is very beautiful,” said Lord Neville, quietly.
—“And clever! Quite a genius, in fact, and equally, of course, pure and innocent as the driven snow.”
The words—the tone—almost maddened Lord Cecil. His face crimsoned, then went pale, and his eyes burnt fiercely as they met the keen, sardonic gaze.
“She is clever! She is a genius! Yes!” he said, controlling himself by a great effort. “She will be, or would have been famous. As to her innocence and purity, she has been brought up and carefully guarded by a man, against whom and herself the tongue of scandal has not dared even to hint a word.”
“In—deed! You are singularly fortunate!” came the scornful response.
Lord Neville sprang to his feet, a half audible oath wrung from him in his torture; but the marquis waved his thin, white, clawlike hand.