“I do hope it’s no one we know, and that we sha’n’t be compelled to call,” she said. “Did they tell you his name?”
“No,” replied Percy Levant, “for a very good reason—no native of Pescia could possibly pronounce an English name. They make something awful out of Smith, even.”
Lady Despard laughed.
“I think I shall go in,” she said. “This sun is making me feel drowsy, and, as when I dream I fall asleep, it would be awkward tumbling into the water. You need not come, Doris,” she added, as Doris made a movement to follow her, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Doris remained.
It was seldom that she was alone with Percy Levant, though they were engaged, and his manner toward her was as full of respect, almost as full, indeed, of reserve, as it had been before the night she had promised to be his wife. Not once had he ventured to kiss her, and when his lips touched her hand it was with a reverence which was almost that of a subject for a monarch. And certainly no monarch ever had a more devoted servant. As Lady Despard said, Percy Levant was a model lover, and she declared that his devotion almost made her wish that he had proposed to her instead of Doris.
“I wish he had,” Doris had retorted, with a smile that was rather too grave to accompany a jest.
They stood now in silence for a moment or two, then he turned his head and looked at her.
“I am glad you stayed, Doris,” he said. “I have something to tell you, to show you.”
“Yes?” she said, leaning on the bridge, and shading her eyes with her hands, that she might the more easily watch the upward flight of a hawk which had been hovering over the plain.
“It is some news I have had,” he said, and he drew a letter from his pocket and held it out to her, but kept his fingers closed on it, as he added, quietly: “Before you read it, let me tell you that I shall accept the offer it contains. Now will you read it, Doris?”