“It would seem that the young lady was not very serious in her little love affair with you. I imagine that that kind of young person seldom is. How can it be expected of them? They are actresses by profession. I daresay she was practicing for a love scene when she was exchanging vows of perpetual faith with you. Pray don’t take my suggestion in bad part!” he put in, for Lord Cecil leaned forward with crimson face. “I am sorry you should have regarded the matter so seriously! It is a mistake—I speak with experience—a mistake to take any woman seriously; they are all daughters of Eve, and as unreliable as their first mother. Miss Marlowe is like the rest, that is all!”
“Will you tell me, my lord, what it is you insinuate?” said Lord Cecil, in despair.
“I insinuate nothing! Why should I? I believe it is perfectly true, but you can ascertain for yourself, of course, that she has jilted you, and gone off with her first, and, pardon me if I add, her more suitable young man.”
Lord Cecil started up, his face pale and working, his eyes flashing.
“It—it is a lie!” he said, hoarsely.
The marquis regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and contempt, the kind of look with which one might regard the movements of a strange animal.
“Yes, it may be! I don’t answer for the truth of the story, as I said.”
“Where has she gone? Who is this—this man? It is false! I will stake my existence upon her truth! It is a ridiculous lie!”
The marquis smiled.
“A large stake; too large for so paltry a prize as a woman’s faith!” he said, calmly. “I have heard that she has gone to Australia with a man named—named—excuse me, my memory is very faulty, but, fortunately, I jotted down the details. I had an idea that you would like to hear them.” He reached for an elegant-bound memorandum book as he spoke, and consulted it.