“Pray sit down. We had better endeavor to discuss this matter quietly. If she is an actress, that is no reason why you should treat me to dramatic attitudes. Pray be calm! I have no doubt you believe all you say, I am quite convinced of it. We’ll agree that she is everything that is beautiful and innocent and talented, and that you are very much in love with her——” and he laughed, such a laugh of taunting scorn and contempt as might have been echoed in Tophet.
Lord Neville sank into his chair again.
“And you propose to marry her?” said the marquis, after sipping his wine. “To marry her! Now that surprises me! How fashions alter! In my day that is the last thing we should have done.”
Lord Neville’s face darkened.
“Even in your day, my lord, all men were not scoundrels,” he said, grimly.
“No,” said the marquis, delighted at having driven him to retort. “No; there were some fools—even in my day!”
“You shall call me what you please, sir.”
“My dear fellow, what else can I call you? Even you will not expect me to applaud such a step as you propose taking. You are a Neville, you will be the Marquis of Stoyle, a peer of the three kingdoms: you will get, or you would have got, the Garter; and you propose to marry—an actress! An actress! If there is any man in England who would not call you a fool, I should like to see him; I should like to see him very much, indeed. Why, my dear fellow, depend upon it, no one thinks you more decidedly a fool than the girl herself.”
“By Heaven, if you only knew her!” broke from Lord Neville’s parched lips.
The marquis laughed.