“Dear Cecil,” purred Spenser Churchill.
“He is so much in love that he bore all the insults that I could heap upon him—no! I wrong him. He struck home once!” and he smiled a strange smile.
“And he means to marry her?”
“Yes,” said the marquis, with a cruel sneer; “he is even fool enough for that.”
“Dear Cecil!” murmured Spenser Churchill again. “How delightful, how refreshing it is, in this practical, stupid life, to find——”
“And he will marry her, unless this scheme of yours answers,” said the marquis, breaking in upon the smooth voice.
“And you doubled his income?”
“I did,” said the marquis.
“And he will go to Ireland? To-morrow?”
“He will, to-morrow,” said the marquis, watching the sleek, false face.