“You might be able to marry upon your allowance doubled, as I propose,” he said. “You would not be very rich, but it might do.”
“It will be quite sufficient,” said Lord Neville, as yet unrecovered from his surprise.
“I shall not live very long, I hope—though, by the way, I should like to live long enough to win that five pounds of you”—Lord Neville smiled—“and then you will have the estates, such as they are.”
“I ask you to believe me, that I am in no hurry. I do not wish, and never have wished for your death,” and his face flushed.
The marquis waved his hand.
“Thanks, very much! But to return: I presume that you have not the slightest doubt of the stability of your feelings? You are sure that you won’t change your mind—your heart, I should have said?”
“Quite certain,” replied Lord Neville, Doris’ face rising before him as he spoke. “My happiness is bound up in Miss Marlowe; I shall never cease to love her.”
“Very good,” said the marquis. “Of course, you want to be married at once? Oh, I have no objection; it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, I assure you.”
“Then your kindness and liberality are all the more marked, sir,” said Lord Neville. “I wish I could convince you of my gratitude; it is sufficient to make me forget—almost—all the hard things you have said.”
“Ah,” said the marquis, “gratitude is a fine sentiment—very fine. But rather hollow and shadowy. If I were to ask you to do something, for instance, to prove this beautiful sentiment!” he sneered, as a finish to the sentence.