The marquis toyed with his fruit knife.
“Charmingly put, my dear Cecil; quite fit for a political platform. But you misunderstand me. I know nothing of the question, and care less; I hate and detest politics; they bore me, they always did. All I want is this: I am told that my agent is a rogue, who has made himself rich by grinding down the tenants; I am also told that he is the most merciful and upright of men. I’m rather curious to know—well, scarcely curious, perhaps—which account is true. Will you go and find out? I don’t think you can call that oppressing the people.”
Lord Neville looked up with quiet eagerness.
“Certainly, I will go, sir,” he said.
The marquis inclined his head.
“Mind, I don’t care a brass farthing whether you go or refuse; I don’t care about anything; and it is very likely that after you are gone to-morrow morning I shall have ceased to remember what you have gone about.”
“To-morrow morning?” said Lord Neville, almost inaudibly. To-morrow morning! and his appointment with Doris, his interview with her guardian!
“Yes,” said the marquis, carelessly, but shooting a glance, half-scornful, half-amused, at the grave face. “If you go at all it must be at once! Some one should have started to-night! The man will collect the rents in a day or two; he should be stopped—or the other thing.”
“Yes,” said Lord Neville, absently.
Go without seeing Doris! Without gaining her guardian’s consent. His heart throbbed with a dull ache.