The dark eyes seemed to flash over him, then fixed themselves upon the cut on his forehead.
“You were not hurt, I hope?” she said. “I see you have a cut on your brow.”
“No,” he said. “It is nothing.”
“How did it happen?” asked Lady Grace. The marquis had not condescended to make any inquiry; indeed, for any sign or interest he might have been stone deaf.
“Got pitched over a hedge,” he said.
“By a man?” she asked, raising her brows.
He laughed.
“No, by a horse. By the way, sir,” he said, turning to the marquis, “I am glad to say that the horse is not injured.”
“No?” said the marquis, with slow indifference. “Perhaps that is as well; horses are valuable,” and the tone more than the words seemed to add—“and men—especially Lord Cecil Neville—are not.”
Lord Cecil glanced at him quickly, but the pale face was set and impassive, as if innocent of any intent to insult.