“You have had rather a bad quarter of an hour—yes?” she said, softly. “What a happy woman the marquis’ wife must have been.”
Lord Cecil started.
“I didn’t know——” he said, inquiringly.
She laughed, and the fan moved to and fro in rhythmic curves.
“No? Oh, yes, there was a marchioness once. Years and years ago. I believe he killed her—with kindness.”
“Poor woman!” he said, under his breath.
“Yes. But that’s the mystery. No one knows, you see, and never will know. Everybody knows about his ruining his cousin, Lord Denbigh, at cards; he committed suicide, and so the marquis inherited the Denbigh title; and about his shooting old Lady Dalrymple’s son—they say that the marquis fired before the word was given; and about his running away with that foolish Lady Penelope—she died in a garret at Dieppe; but nobody knows about the marchioness. How shocked you look!”
“Do I?” he said. “I didn’t think I was capable of it. But surely that isn’t all he has done?” he said, with great sarcasm.
“Oh, no; these are trifles which I happened to remember hearing about. They are only trifles.”
“That is all,” he said.