Doris took the card.
“The Marquis of Stoyle,” she answered, falteringly.
Lady Despard rose in her usual languid style.
“The marquis! Oh, I think we must see him, dear. He has come to pour out his gratitude——”
“It isn’t the marquis, my lady, but his valet,” said the footman.
Lady Despard sank back into the midst of the whirlpool of muslin.
“Oh, well, show him in.”
“Here, my lady?”
“Yes; I’m too busy to go to any one short of a marquis.”
The valet, a grave, distinguished-looking man, who might well have been taken for a marquis, or, for that matter, a duke, entered a moment or two afterward, and bowed.