“So that there was something in that story of her going to his rooms, you see!” envious mothers whispered behind their fans.
And the following morning Cecil Neville received a short message from the marquis, who was staying at the big house in Grosvenor Square, requesting that Cecil would come and see him.
Cecil went, and found his lordship seated by the window of his own room, looking at the passers-by as if he were a judge just donning the black cap. His thin lips drew together with a smile that was more like a sneer as he gave Cecil a couple of cold fingers.
“So you’ve come to your senses at last?” was his amiable greeting.
Lord Cecil smiled rather grimly.
“I suppose you allude to my engagement to Lady Grace, sir?” he said. “I was coming to call on you when your message reached me.”
“Ah! Well, I congratulate you, and I wish her every happiness,” remarked the marquis by way of a blessing, and his tone said quite plainly: “But I don’t think she’ll get it.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Lord Cecil.
“Yes, I think you are a confoundedly lucky fellow,” continued the marquis, “especially as you nearly got into the worst mess a man can get into. I suppose that affair turned out as I expected? The wench jilted you—oh, I don’t want to know any particulars, they wouldn’t interest me; but I may be permitted to express a hope that you have completely washed your hands of the whole affair, and that if the girl turns up again, there will be no nonsense. Grace is far too good for you, and very much too good for any trick of that kind.”
Lord Cecil bit his lip and frowned.