Doris’ face flushed, but Percy Levant’s remained grave.
“As Mr. Churchill has no gossip to relate, perhaps this will be acceptable,” he said. “I have just got it by this post,” and he took a society journal from his pocket and handed it to Doris to pass to Lady Despard.
“The Glass of Fashion!” exclaimed her ladyship. “How nice! I haven’t seen it for ages,” and she opened it with a little flush of satisfaction. “I always enjoy The Glass; it is always so charmingly spiteful. It ought to be called The Cup of Poison, for it destroys a reputation every week.”
She began turning over the pages of this, the latest product in society journalism, and Spenser Churchill in vain endeavored to engage Percy Levant in conversation, then suddenly Lady Despard uttered an exclamation.
“What is the matter, dear Lady Despard?” asked Spenser Churchill. “Has The Glass attacked one of your bosom friends?”
“Oh, no; it’s this!” replied Lady Despard. “Just listen:
“‘Rumor, which is not always untruthful, hinted some time ago at the engagement of one of our principal beauties to the heir of the oldest marquisate in England; and we are now authorized to formally announce that Lady Grace Peyton is engaged to Lord Cecil Neville, the heir and nephew of the Marquis of Stoyle. The marriage will take place as soon as the marquis has recovered from his present attack of illness.’
“Cecil Neville and Grace Peyton are really engaged, then, and to be married out of hand! Well—oh, look!—Doris!” she broke off, with a cry of dismay, for Doris had fallen back in a dead faint.
Mr. Spenser Churchill, with a cry of alarm, sprang from his chair and hastened round the table; but Percy Levant had raised her in his arms, and, as he supported her lifeless form on his breast, stretched out one hand to ward Spenser Churchill off.
“Stand back!” he said, hoarsely, his white face set hard and stern. “You shall not touch her!” and, lifting her bodily, he carried her into the hall.