“His lordship’s compliments, my lady, and he would be glad to know how Miss Doris Marlowe is.”
Lady Despard jerked her thumb lightly toward Doris.
“That is Miss Marlowe.”
The valet bowed respectfully—very respectfully—to Doris.
“His lordship is very ill, miss; or he would have done himself the honor to wait upon you to thank you for your great kindness to him,” he said.
Doris’ face flushed for an instant.
“I am sorry,” she said, bending over her work; “but I did very little, as the marquis knows.”
“He is very ill, miss—that is, he is very weak, and——” he hesitated, “and he requested me to say that he should deem it a very great favor, indeed, if you would come and see him. He wished me to say that, if he could have crawled—crawled was his word, my lady”—turning to Lady Despard, “he would have come himself. But he is quite confined to his room, and perfectly unable to leave it. The marquis is an old man, you see, my lady, and has been ill, very ill.”
Lady Despard looked at Doris and seemed to wait her reply; and the valet crossed his hands and also seemed to wait, respectfully and patiently.
Doris’ white brow wrinkled painfully, and she laid a tremulous hand upon Lady Despard’s arm.