Percy Levant thrust his hands in his pockets.
“Has she been ill, or is it trouble that makes her look like that?” he asked, in a grave, thoughtful tone.
“Trouble,” said Spenser Churchill. “Poor girl. Yes, she has been ill, too; but she is better, and the change will completely set her up, I hope.”
“Change?”
“Yes,” he purred. “She and Lady Despard go to Italy next week,” and he smiled as he struck the blow and saw Percy wince.
“To Italy next week!” He turned upon him. “What are you scheming? What are you doing? Why did you take me to see her to-night, if——Do you think I am made of stone; that, like yourself, I’ve no heart! To Italy!”
“Yes,” murmured Spenser Churchill, “and I have arranged that you shall go with them——”
Percy Levant started again, and, stopping, confronted him with a pale, eager face.
“What?”
“Yes, exactly! You are to go with them as—what shall we say?—friendly cavalier, courier, what you will—anything will serve as an excuse. What do you say? Perhaps, after all, you regret your bargain! If so, say so, and I’ll release you.”