“Which I do with all my heart, my dear Cecil,” murmured Spenser Churchill, taking Lord Cecil’s hand in both of his and pressing it affectionately, while he beamed a benedictory smile all over him. “With all my heart! I can’t tell you, my dear marquis, how rejoiced I was to hear the news. Dear Lady Grace! So beautiful and so good! You are, indeed, a happy man, Cecil! May every good gift which Heaven has to bestow——”
“That will do,” broke in the marquis, with a sneer; “we’ll take the rest as read, if you don’t mind. I’ve told Cecil that I will give a party to mark my sense of his sense.”
“A party? Excellent! admirable!” exclaimed Spenser Churchill, rubbing his hands, his eyes going from the marquis’ cold, sardonic face to Lord Cecil’s grave and rather moody one with keen watchfulness. “Now, how good of you to think of that! Why, how many years is it since you entertained in this house?”
The marquis compressed his lips.
“The last time was”—he paused a moment, then, as if out of sheer bravado, went on—“the night before my wife ran away from me! Not a pleasant omen for ‘dear Cecil,’ is it?”
Spenser Churchill coughed behind his hand.
“Oh, there must be no bad omens for the young couple,” he said, rather confusedly. “And what date is the party to be?”
“When you like,” replied the marquis, with the most profound indifference. “I should enjoy it better if you’d wait until I’m dead, but, as it is, I don’t care when it is.”
“Ah! then we must leave it to dear Lady Grace,” said Spenser Churchill.
“I’m sending her a present,” said the marquis, listlessly. “There are some things in that safe there; get them out and choose something.”