After this cheerful remark the conversation rather naturally languished. Lord Cecil was hungry, and devoted his attention to his plate; the servants moved to and fro waiting with subdued and watchful assiduity; the marquis ate his dinner with slow, wearied glance, his eyes fixed on the great, golden epergne in the centre of the table, as profoundly silent as if he never meant to utter another word. Now and again Lady Grace raised her eyes and scanned the handsome face opposite her, and Lord Cecil would have returned the compliment, but while he ate his dinner he was thinking of that other face with the dark hair and blue eyes, which had bent over him by the brook, recalling the sweet voice, which still rang in his ears like distant music.
He started when the low, soft voice of Lady Grace said:
“Have you been at the Towers long, Lord Cecil?”
It was rather an awkward question, for this was his first visit to any house of the marquis, his uncle, for ten years.
“Two days,” he replied, simply.
Lady Grace’s eyes grew keen, and she glanced from the young man to the old one.
“I have just been trying to tell the marquis how intensely I admire the place,” she said.
The marquis inclined his head to her in courtly acknowledgment, but without a word.
“It is the prettiest—no, the grandest—old place I have ever seen. I am quite surprised to hear that the marquis seldom visits it. The view from the terrace is simply magnificent. The country round about must be very beautiful.”
“I think it is,” said Lord Cecil; the marquis made no sign. “I haven’t seen much of it.”