He paused imperceptibly.
“Who could do anything but love you, dear Grace!” he replied. “Will you be my wife? I will try and make you happy, indeed I will! What do you say?”
Her soft, warm fingers closed on his, and she leaned towards him involuntarily.
“If you are sure”—she murmured—“if you are sure you want me to say ‘yes’——”
“Indeed I do!” he responded. “I have come all the way from Norway in the hope that you would.”
“Then I will say—‘yes!’” she breathed, and her head sank upon his breast. “You will be good to me—Cecil?”
“I will be good to you,” he responded, and he put his arm round her and kissed her in lover-wise, but not—ah, not!—with the passionate kisses which he had rained upon the lips, and eyes, and hair of Doris Marlowe!
CHAPTER XXIX.
WICKED LORD STOYLE.
The news spread, as such news will, and in a day or two all London knew, through the gossip-mongers and the society papers, that Lord Cecil Neville, the heir to the marquisate of Stoyle, had proposed to Lady Grace.