“No,” said Cecil, gravely.
“Astonishing! Ah, my dear Cecil he is a marvelous man. They were saying that he was going to dance—a square dance, of course, just a walk through a quadrille, but I shouldn’t think—eh? Why, yes, he is—” he broke off, smoothly, “actually is!” and followed by Cecil he made his way toward a circle that surrounded the marquis who was seen going toward Lady Grace.
“These young people have set me thinking of old times, Lady Grace,” he said, in his clear, metallic voice. “Will you dare to brave their ridicule by giving your hand to an old man? Or perhaps you would prefer a more suitable partner?” and he shot a sarcastic glance at Cecil, who had now reached his side.
She bent toward him with perfect grace, and placed her hand upon his arm.
A thrill of amazement and curiosity ran through the room, and those near the two fell back. The set was formed, and Lord Cecil found himself standing at one of the sides, with a young girl for a partner.
“What a delightful man to have for an uncle,” she said, with a smile.
“Yes, yes,” he replied, absently, his eyes fixed on the thin, white face.
The music commenced, the dance began, and the marquis, with a grace which reminded those of his old friends of the days when “Wicked Lord Stoyle” was in the prime of his youth—and his wickedness—led Lady Grace to the center. A crowd had collected round the set; all eyes were fixed upon him and the lovely woman who bore her triumph with such queenly self-possession, when suddenly a cry—a shudder, rather—of alarm ran from lip to lip; for the erect, stately figure was seen to swerve and rock, and then stand still, as if rooted to the spot, with its arms held above its head, and its starting eyes fixed strangely on vacancy.
“Great Heaven! It’s a fit! He’s dying!” said some one.
Cecil sprang forward, and, just in time, caught him in his arms.