Lord Cecil stared at him.
“Till the day of your marriage?” he exclaimed.
“Exactly,” returned Percy Levant. “Such a request astonishes you, no doubt. It is only natural that you should demand my reasons for this delay, but I shall ask, as a favor, that you permit me to keep them to myself until the sixteenth! I have another request to make, which, I fear, you will deem as strange as those which have preceded it.”
“Go on!” said Cecil, knitting his brows.
“I shall be glad if your lordship will permit me to call at the Villa Vittoria, Lord Stoyle’s residence, at four o’clock on the sixteenth. I shall have an explanation to make, which you may consider an ample excuse for accepting any challenge I may offer.”
Cecil, after a moment’s perplexed consideration, turned to him.
“I haven’t the least idea of your motives in these requests, Mr. Levant,” he said, with a quiet dignity, “but I don’t think I can do anything else than grant them. After all, I have no claim for satisfaction from you; the offense lies with me.”
“Just so, my lord,” said Percy Levant, taking his hat. “I wish you good-morning. On the sixteenth you and I shall understand each other more easily.”
“I hope so,” said Cecil, grimly. “One moment,” he added, hesitatingly, as Percy Levant turned to leave the room. “Is—is Miss Marlowe in Pescia?” he asked, in a low voice.
“Miss Marlowe is in Pescia, my lord,” replied Percy Levant, looking at him steadily.