“But I do,” she said, averting her eyes. “Yes, I think them worth all the rest!”
They had traversed the long passage by this time, and reached the fly. Jeffrey put her in carefully, and was himself following, when he stopped suddenly, frowning and biting his lips.
“Doris,” he said, “you leave all to me? You leave all to my judgment, as hitherto? You are a famous woman now, or will be to-morrow, and may like to be independent. Would you rather wait till to-morrow and make your own arrangements with the manager, or shall I, as of old——”
“Jeffrey!” she broke in, with a reproachful look in her eyes.
“Very well,” he said. “Brown has made me a very large offer for a month. I put him off just now, but I think I will go back and accept for you. I shall not be many minutes.”
Doris leaned back, and, closing her eyes, pressed the violets against her cheek. She could see the handsome face all aglow with excitement and admiration as he raised his right arm and flung the flowers; she could see it at that moment, and the mental vision shut out all the rest of that eventful night.
Suddenly she heard her name spoken beside the carriage window, and, leaning forward, she saw, in real earnest, the face which had been her inspiration. It was Lord Cecil Neville’s.
“Miss Marlowe,” he said, learning forward and speaking quietly, pleadingly. “Don’t be angry! Pray forgive me! I—I could not pass on without saying a word—one word of thanks.”
“Thanks?” she murmured.
Her eyes were lifted for a moment to his ardent face, then dropped to the violets and rested there.