She knew that the world would talk and shrug its shoulders if she accompanied Lord Cecil to Italy, although she took the elderly lady as a chaperone; but she set the world’s opinion at naught, just as she had done when, in obedience to Spenser Churchill’s prompting, she went down to Lord Cecil’s chambers. She could not let him out of her sight, and that was the long and short of it.
Lord Cecil took the wine to the carriage, and poured some out for her, but she only put her lips to it.
“It is too awful!” she said, irritably. “Pray hurry them on, Cecil. I am sure those horses must be rested by now. It is sheer laziness. Who was that you were talking to when I called you?” she asked, abruptly, her keen eyes fixed on his face.
He felt himself growing white.
“Nobody you know,” he said, abruptly. “Try and drink some wine, it is not so bad.”
“Are you sure I don’t know them? I thought I heard English voices.”
“You don’t know them,” he said, almost curtly.
“Let me out and let me see,” she said, querulously. “I am sick of being cooped up here.”
“Come out by all means, if you like, Grace,” he responded, “but there is no one there, and the horses are just being put to.”
As he spoke, the postilion led the weary animals into the shafts, and Lady Grace sank back with a restless sigh.