“‘Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward,’ my lord,” said Doris, in a low voice.
“Aye,” he said, knitting his brows “Yes. Trouble we make for ourselves; but sorrow must have been unmerited in your case, child. Tell me——” he stopped short and sighed. “I am forgetting,” he said. “Why should you tell me? I am not your father——” he stopped again. “Did I tell you that I had a daughter once? She is dead. If she had lived she would have been about your age, I think. I wish——” again he stopped, and the proud lips quivered slightly. “I have neither son nor daughter; only a nephew, who, doubtless, thinks I am an unconscionable time dying; and he is right. It is time that there was a new Marquis of Stoyle.”
Doris looked down.
“I—I think you do him an injustice, my lord,” she said.
He laughed the old cynical laugh.
“If he doesn’t, I’ve no doubt Grace does. Lady Grace Peyton, the girl he is going to marry,” he explained, “is a clever girl; too clever for Cecil,” and he smiled half-scornfully. “She will have all the brains, and, perhaps, he will have all the honesty. Yes, I’ll say that for him; he may be a fool, but he’s no knave. A knave would have been too sharp for us——” He put his hand to his brow as if his memory were slipping from him and he was endeavoring to keep a hold upon it. “Did I tell you about him and Lady Grace? I think I told you.”
Doris shook her head.
“No, my lord,” she replied, almost inaudibly.
“No? I thought——” He paused, and looked round with a helpless sigh. “I have forgotten it now. Spenser Churchill could tell you. It will amuse you.” He smiled with childish enjoyment. “I wish I could remember, but I can’t. My memory is worse, much worse since my illness;” and he sighed again.
“Do not distress yourself, my lord,” said Doris. “You shall tell me when you remember it, if you like.”