“A good musician and linguist need not take to her needle for her maintenance,” said Spenser Churchill. “I have, of course, foreseen that the question would arise, and I have—pray forgive me, my dear young lady—been making some inquiries on your behalf.” He drew out a pocketbook, and took a letter from it. “It happens that a friend of mine—Lady Despard—you may have heard of her; she is well known for her charitable work——”
Doris shook her head.
“I have never heard of her,” she said, trying to speak with some interest.
“A sweet creature! A widow, alas, though young! Very wealthy, moving in the best society—ahem!—and fond of traveling. She is just going abroad, and requires a companion. I think—I am sure—that you would like her, and that if you could bring yourself to accept the position, which is so much below your genius——”
“She is going abroad?” said Doris, with sudden eagerness.
He inclined his head.
“Yes, to Italy. The change would do you good—is, indeed, absolutely necessary.”
Abroad, out of England, beyond the chance of meeting Cecil Neville! A faint hope, for the first time since Jeffrey’s death, rose in Doris’ heart.
“But you need not decide to-day. You shall think it over,” he said, taking up his hat. “By the way, if you should need me, will you send word—at any time, and the very moment you would like to see me—to Barton Towers? I am staying with my friend, the Marquis of Stoyle.”
Doris started, and the blood rose to her face.