Lord Neville looked up.
“I wish you would!” he said. “I should like to prove my sincerity, sir.”
The marquis looked round the room with a smile of idle amusement.
“Really,” he said, “there is nothing I can think of asking you to do, excepting to pass the wine, and that does not entail much sacrifice.”
“I was not jesting, sir,” said Lord Neville, gravely. “My offer was made in all sincerity.”
“Really? Dear me, I wish I could think of something, Ah!” he stopped and looked at Lord Neville’s attentive face keenly, sarcastically. “What do you say if I ask you to go over to Ireland for me?”
Lord Neville’s face grew grave, and the marquis leaned back and laughed with grim satisfaction.
“You see! Gratitude’s a very fine thing—to talk about!”
Lord Neville flushed.
“You misunderstand my silence,” he said, quietly. “If you mean by going to Ireland for you, I’m to take side with the landlords”—stopped—“I could not join in the oppression of those poor people, my lord, even to prove my own sincerity.”