He went to the door of the anteroom, and taking Doris’ hand led her toward the group.
“Doris,” he said, in a low voice that trembled and broke for the first time. “Doris—your father!”
With pale face, wet with tears, Doris stood for a moment, irresolute. The old man, who had raised his head as her name smote upon his ear, made an effort to rise; then sank back with outstretched hands and piteously pleading face.
“My child, my child!” he cried, hoarsely.
It would have required a harder heart than Doris’ to resist such an appeal, an appeal for forgiveness, a cry of penitence and remorse. She hesitated a moment, while one could count twenty. Then she was at his knee, and his weak, quivering hands were upon her head.
Lady Grace, panting with the suppressed fury of jealousy, glanced at the picture which nearly moved two of the spectators to tears.
“How—how charming!” she said in a harsh voice. “Father and daughter. You have only to extend your blessing to the husband, my lord!” and she swept a contemptuous courtesy on Percy Levant.
“Yes, don’t forget the wily adventurer, the music teacher of Soho, your son-in-law, dear marquis!” pursued Spenser Churchill, sardonically.
The marquis started, and looked up at Percy Levant piteously.
“Are you—are you her husband?” he managed to articulate.