The marquis toyed with the diamond stud at his wrist, and maintained his accustomed air of cold and haughty indifference; but Spenser Churchill’s keen eyes detected a slight tremor of the thin, white fingers.
“Y—es! It is very sad, and my heart bleeds for poor Cecil——” Lady Grace tapped her hand with her fan with impatience, and seeing and recognizing it, he went on with still more exasperating slowness. “Only they who have suffered as he will and must suffer can sympathize with him. To have one’s tenderest affections nipped in the bud, to find that one’s true and devoted love has been misplaced, and—er—betrayed; ah, how cruel and sharp a torture it is! Poor Cecil, poor Cecil!”
The fan snapped loudly, its delicate ivory leaves broken in the restless, impatient fingers.
“Can you not tell us what has occurred—the truth, without this—this sermon?” she exclaimed, almost fiercely.
“Yes, pray spare us, if you can, Spenser,” said the marquis, with a cold smile. “I gather from what you say, that this miserable business has come to an end. Is that so?”
“Yes! Is that so?” demanded Lady Grace.
Spenser Churchill heaved a deep sigh, but a faint smile of satisfaction lurked in his half-closed eyes.
“I regret to say that it is,” he said. “Poor Cecil’s affections have been wasted! The tenderest emotions of his heart betrayed! The young lady has—discarded him!”
The marquis raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders, but Lady Grace rose and laid her hand—with no gentle grasp—on Spenser Churchill’s arm.
“Is this true?” she asked, almost in a whisper.