“Barton Towers?” she murmured, mechanically.
“Yes,” he said, smoothly, as if he had not noticed her sudden agitation. “The marquis is an old friend of mine. So is his nephew and heir, Lord Cecil Neville. You may have heard of him?”
“Yes—I—have heard of him,” said Doris, in a low voice, which faltered, notwithstanding her efforts to keep it steady.
“Yes; a most charming young fellow,” he went on, with a smile, “but a terribly unsteady one. But, there, we must not be hard upon a young fellow in his position. Young men who are blessed with good looks and heirships to marquisates are apt to be unsteady; though I am glad to say that Lord Neville’s wild days are nearly over. He is in Ireland at present, but when he comes back he is to marry Lady Grace Peyton.”
Doris sat perfectly motionless, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes fixed on the lovely summer scene framed in the window; but the view was all blurred in her sight, and a sound as of rushing waves rang in her ears.
“To marry Lady Grace Peyton!” she echoed, dully, as if the words possessed no sense.
“Yes,” he purred. “It is a very old attachment. She is a most charming and beautiful creature, and I am not surprised that, notwithstanding his numerous flirtations, Lord Neville has remained constant. It will be a most suitable and advantageous match for both of them——My dear young lady,” he broke off, for Doris had sunk back, white to the lips, and with closed eyes, “you are ill. Let me call Mrs. Jelf.”
But, with an almost superhuman effort, Doris fought down the terrible faintness, and, stretching out her hand, commandingly, said:
“No! It is nothing. The heat—stay, please!”
He stood, regarding her silently, watchfully, with an anxious, sympathetic expression on his smooth face.