“Hem—yes!” murmured Spenser Churchill; “and you flatter yourself she will remain with you, of course?”
“You do not know her,” was the tremulous reply. “You do not know her! My child, my child!”
Spenser Churchill watched him in silence from under his white, smooth lids.
“By the way, my dear Jeffrey,” he said softly, “did it ever strike you, that supposing Lady Mary decided to return to her father”—Jeffrey winced—“her father—that the marquis might refuse to acknowledge her?”
Jeffrey looked at him as if he scarcely understood.
“You see,” continued Spenser Churchill, resting his foot on the tree, and leaning forward with a subtle smile; “it is such an extraordinary story; the marquis might be inclined to remark that he would require some proofs! I need scarcely remind you that he is not the most credulous of men; in fact, that he is rather inclined to be suspicious.”
Jeffrey nodded grimly.
“I know him,” he said, almost as if to himself. “I have thought of that, and am prepared with proofs.” He put his hand to his breast pocket mechanically, and drew out the papers, and Spenser Churchill’s eyes darted to them with a swift eagerness. “If—if Doris chooses to—to go to him, and leave me, it will not be in his power to repudiate her! These,” and he touched the papers with his forefinger, and then put them in his pocket again; “these will establish her birth beyond dispute.”
“I am delighted to hear it. That is quite satisfactory, quite. And so, my dear Jeffrey, you expect the young lady to renounce her father, the marquis—her rank and title, and all that would become hers—think of it—and remain with you; all will go on as before, and the father and his adopted child will be happy ever afterward, like the people in the fairy story?”
Jeffrey nodded, and the deep lines in his face grew lighter.