Lord Cecil drew a breath of relief.
“They are always together; they go from theatre to theatre. He is a very extraordinary old gentleman, and very trying at rehearsals, so I’ve heard the actors say; but he knows all about it, quite as well as the stage manager.”
At this moment the two London critics came up for a drink, and one of them bowed to Lord Cecil.
“Quite an eventful evening, my lord,” he said, with the easy respect of a fellow-Londoner.
“Yes,” said Lord Cecil. “It is a great success, I suppose. Do you know who Miss Doris Marlowe is?”
The critic shrugged his shoulders.
“Haven’t the least idea. Quite a stella incognita, but she will not be so after to-night. We shall see her in Drury Lane before many months are passed.”
“Who was that?” his friend, the other critic, asked.
“Lord Cecil Neville,” was the reply. “The heir to the Marquisate of Stoyle. A splendid fellow, and, strange to say, not a bit spoiled, though all the women make a dead set at him.”
“The Marquis of Stoyle,” said the other thoughtfully. “That old villain? And this is his nephew. He is immensely good-looking.”