She inclined her head.
“We will be married on the sixteenth!” he said, almost solemnly. He raised her hand to his lips. “Don’t look so scared, Doris,” he said, with a curious smile. “I—I am a better man than you think me!” and, dropping her hand, he left the room.
Doris had burned her boats. There was no returning across the river. She had pledged herself now irrevocably.
The next morning at breakfast the marquis’ valet called to inquire after Miss Marlowe.
“His lordship has been in a terrible state, miss,” he said, gravely. “He was afraid that something he had said had offended or alarmed you, and although he was put at a loss to remember what it was, the idea distressed him very much, and seems to be preying on his mind. He was very ill, indeed, last night, quite wandering, so to speak, and the doctor did not leave him for a moment.”
“Please tell the marquis that I—I have forgiven all that he said, that I know he was not aware there was anything to offend me in—in the incident he related,” said Doris, painfully. “Yes; tell him that whatever it was, I forgive it freely.”
“Thank you, miss,” said the valet, with a look of relief. “His lordship will be very glad to get the message. Begging your pardon, miss, but his lordship seems, if I may be so bold, to be wrapped up in you. He was talking about her ladyship, the marchioness, last night, her ladyship and the little girl, and he kept repeating your name, as if you reminded him of her.”
Doris sighed. Percy Levant stood gravely regarding the tablecloth, saying not a word.
“I suppose you have sent for Lord Cecil as the marquis is so much worse?” said Lady Despard.
The valet shrugged his shoulders.