“I have heard of him, my lord,” replied Percy Levant.
“Ah, no doubt! He is not clever, but he marries a clever girl! Yes, Grace is clever,” and a smile curved his thin lips. “Cecil gave us some trouble, but we were too sharp for him. I think I told you, my dear?” he broke off to ask of Doris.
She shook her head and tried to speak, to lead him away from further mention of the name which struck her heart, but with the persistence of old age he went on:
“It’s a curious story, Mr.——forgive me, sir, but I have forgotten your name.”
“Percy Levant; but it is of no consequence, my lord.”
“Thank you, Mr. Levant. A curious story. My nephew, Cecil Neville, is the next in succession. He will be the Marquis of Stoyle. We were never very friendly. My fault, no doubt; I plead guilty, my dear,” to Doris. “All old men in my position have plans, and I have one. I wanted him to marry Peyton’s daughter Grace. You see, Peyton and I were old friends, and Grace had a claim upon me. I thought she would make a very good marchioness, and a capital match for Cecil. I’m afraid I weary you, sir,” he broke off.
“On the contrary,” said Percy Levant, in a constrained voice, and carefully avoiding looking in Doris’ direction.
“No? You are very good. Well, I wanted Cecil to marry her. I expected some opposition, but, by gad, I didn’t expect that he would thwart me to the extent of falling in love—engaging himself to another girl!”
Doris, white and trembling, laid her hand upon his arm.
“You—you will tire yourself, my lord,” she managed to murmur.