He inclined his head.
“One time, not so long ago, I could remember everything,” he said, with a forced smile which was infinitely pitiable. “Not a face or a story but I could carry it in my mind, and now”—he looked at her apologetically—“I have actually forgotten your name, who have been so kind to a feeble old man, my dear.”
“Doris Marlowe,” said Doris.
He repeated it twice or thrice; then shook his head.
“Yes, a pretty name. I don’t think I ever heard it before. My little girl’s name was Mary. They wanted to call it Lucy, after her mother; but there has always been a Mary Neville—until now. I told you she died, did I not?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Doris, soothingly.
“Y—es,” he repeated, musingly. “If she had lived I should have had some one, like yourself, to see me through the last mile of life’s race—the last mile. I kept race horses once. I’ve done and seen everything in my time. Wicked Lord Stoyle they called me. But through it all I was never so bad as some. Spenser Churchill, for instance——”
“Mr. Spenser Churchill has been very good to me, my lord,” said Doris, gently.
The keen, piercing eyes opened upon her with amazement.
“Good to you!—Spenser Churchill? You are jesting, child. He was never good to any one, man or woman!” he laughed. “Spenser Churchill. Why, it was he who——” He stopped, with a troubled look on his face. “No—I’ve forgotten—it has slipped me again. It is something Grace was in, too. Clever woman, Grace; too clever for Cecil. But I had my way. Yes! I had my way.”