“Where is Spenser Churchill?” demanded Lord Cecil, hoarsely.
“Heaven only knows!” said the marquis, shrugging his shoulders. “In London, possibly, or he may have gone out on a mission to the Jews, or the Turks, or the Sandwich Islanders. I neither know nor care, if I may say so. And now, hadn’t you better go and get something to eat? I fear we have exhausted the subject,” and he leaned back and regarded the opposite wall with an expression which was intended to indicate that, whether they had exhausted the subject or not, the subject had entirely and completely exhausted him.
Lord Cecil regarded him sternly for a moment, as if he were about to speak, then, with a gesture of farewell, opened the door and went out. Scarcely had he done so than the curtains over a door behind the marquis’ chair fluttered violently, and Lady Grace glided out.
She was pale, and her under lip was caught in her white teeth, in her endeavor to appear calm and self-possessed.
“Has he gone?” she said.
“Oh, yes!” replied the marquis. “You heard our interesting and dramatic dialogue?”
She nodded.
“Do you think——” She paused and turned aside. “Do you think that he cared for her very much?”
His lordship smiled sardonically.
“I should say he was what is termed madly in love with her.”