“It couldn’t have been more awkward if he had died,” she said, almost sullenly.
Lord Cecil looked down at her gravely.
“I am very glad he is not dead,” he said. “I hope, and I think, he may recover completely. We can wait, Grace.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, with an effort; “we can wait; but it is terribly awkward, all the same, and people are talking so.”
“Let them talk!” he said, almost sternly. “What do I—or what should you—care what they say?”
A week passed, and the marquis still remained in the same condition mentally, but physically he progressed in a remarkable manner.
To all intents and purposes he was as well and strong as he was before his sudden attack, and one morning he rang for his valet, and said, in his old, haughty, listless manner:
“It is very cold here, in London, Williams.”
“Cold, my lord? We are all complaining of the heat!”
“So you may be; but that does not affect me, if I am cold,” retorted the marquis, grimly. “I shall go south! Pack up what is necessary, and see that we start to-morrow.”