Cecil drew himself up to his full height.
“My name is Neville,” he said, haughtily.
Percy Levant slowly and gently drew Doris’ arm within his.
“So I imagined, my lord,” he said, not sternly nor haughtily, but with a calm—almost judicial—gravity. “I could have wished that our meeting could have been under freer circumstances,” and he nodded significantly; “but as it is, allow me to introduce myself! My name is Levant—Percy Levant!”
Lord Cecil gave the short, military bow which is half a nod and half an obeisance, and glanced at Doris, who leaned upon Percy Levant’s arm, and hung her head; her quivering lips and pallid face bearing evidence to the emotions which wrung her heart.
“Yes, I am Cecil Neville,” said Lord Cecil. “I am an old—” he paused—“an old friend of Miss Marlowe’s, whom I did not expect to meet here. You are a relation, I presume?”
“No,” said Percy Levant, meeting the half-fierce gaze of the dark Stoyle eyes. “But I hope to be. I have the happiness and honor to be Miss Marlowe’s affianced husband.”
Cecil Neville drew back a step, and his face grew white.
“I—I beg your pardon,” he said, stiffly. “I—I did not know. Why did you not tell me?” he asked, turning to Doris with white lips and reproachful eyes.
She tried to speak, had opened her lips, indeed, when a voice, impatient and querulous, broke the silence. It was the voice of Lady Grace.