“No, no,” he said. “I want to tell you, my dear. It is a very good story. Where was I——”
“Lord Cecil was in love with another lady, I believe, my lord,” said Percy Levant, in a dry voice.
“Yes, yes,” murmured the marquis, feebly, “a young person by the name of——” He stopped and knit his brows. “I’m sorry, but I can’t remember her name!”
“It is of no consequence, my lord,” said Percy Levant, still averting his eyes from the spot where Doris sat with drooping head.
“I can’t remember her name. She was an actress. An actress! Imagine it, my dear!” and he turned to Doris with a smile. “A common actress to be the Marchioness of Stoyle! I thought Cecil had gone out of his mind, and that I could laugh him, or argue him out of his absurd fancy; but sarcasm and logic were thrown away upon him, and I admit that I should have been beaten, yes, beaten!—I, who had never been thwarted in my life!—but, fortunately, some one came to my aid.”
He stopped and dropped back upon the cushions; and Doris, with an effort, rose and gave him some water.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said, gratefully, his eyes resting on her pale face with an affectionate smile.
“Spenser Churchill——” Doris nearly let the glass fall and sank back into her chair.
“Mr. Spenser Churchill, the great philanthropist, my lord?” asked Percy Levant, in a dry voice.
The marquis laughed a sardonic laugh.