The marquis tossed the letter to him.
“It is a very good counterfeit,” he said.
Spenser Churchill laughed softly.
“I tried to imagine the way in which our dear Cecil would write, and you think I have succeeded? Poor Cecil, poor girl! What a hard world it is! Now, why can’t these interesting young things be permitted to be happy in their own charming, unsophisticated way? What a pity it is that one feels bound, in the cause of humanity and society, to—er—so to speak—put a spoke in their wheel!” and he stood up and began buttoning his coat.
“You yourself are going to take that letter?” asked the marquis.
“Oh, yes!” purred Spenser Churchill. “We mustn’t confide our nice little plot to a servant.”
“You are taking a great deal of trouble; why?” said the marquis, eyeing him keenly.
Spenser Churchill’s eyes dropped, and a benevolent smile shone on his smooth face.
“Simply out of regard and affection for you, marquis, and our dear Cecil, and the house of Stoyle, to which I am so much attached. Yes, I shall take the letter myself.”
“Ah!” said the marquis, slowly. Then he looked up. “I should recommend you to keep clear of Cecil,” he said, with a sneer. “He’s as strong as an ox and—a Neville. Seriously, Spenser, if he should get an inkling, and catch you, I fear you would come off badly. Unless you are tired of life, you had better keep out of his way.”