The marquis filled a glass with the rare and costly wine, and as he sipped it, allowed his eyes to stray over the rim to his nephew’s face.
“I think I told you Lady Grace was expected?” he said.
“I think not, sir,” said Lord Cecil.
“Ah, it escaped me. Her father is an old—friend of mine.” The pause conveyed the sneer which lay in almost every sentence he uttered, and was expressed by tone or word. “He did me a great service, and I owe him a debt of gratitude.”
Lord Cecil looked up inquiringly. The marquis dipped his white fingers in the finger-glass, and added, smoothly:
“He ran off with a girl to whom I was going to be married. This is her daughter, and I am naturally—attached to her.”
The idea of the marquis being attached to any human being on the face of the earth almost raised a smile on Lord Cecil’s face. He might have laughed outright; the marquis would have made no sign. He sipped his wine slowly, then he said:
“She is what the people call a beautiful girl?”
This was put as a question, and Lord Cecil hastened to reply:
“She is very beautiful, sir.”