Now, as Lord Neville stared at him, he blandly and placidly smiled, as if he had parted from Neville only a quarter-of-an-hour ago, and held out his hand as if he were bestowing a bishopric by the action.
“Why, the last time I saw you was at Nice!” said Lord Neville, with a laugh, “and here you are at Barton! What on earth brings you here? Don’t make the usual answer about the two-twenty-five train and your legs——”
“I wasn’t thinking of doing so,” said Spenser Churchill, softly. “What a charming spot!” and he looked round with a soft rapture beaming on his face. “Charming! So rural! That brook—those trees—the clear, spring sky—the songs of the birds—didn’t I hear human voices, by the way?” he asked; and it is to be noticed that he didn’t break off to put the question abruptly, but allowed it to form portions of his softly-gliding sentence, as if it were the most innocent and careless of queries, and he let his eyes fall with a gentle, beaming interrogation on the handsome face.
Lord Neville looked aside for a moment. Cherubimic as Spenser Churchill was, Lord Neville did not quite care to answer the question.
“I daresay,” he said; “but you haven’t answered me yet, Spenser. What brings you here?”
“A deeply-rooted love of the country, my dear Cissy; from a child I have reveled in—er—the green meadows and the purling brook. I always fly from town at every opportunity. And you?”
“I am staying at Barton,” said Cecil Neville, rather shortly.
Spenser Churchill raised his pale eyebrows with a faint surprise.
“With the marquis—with the uncle?” he said, softly.
“Exactly. You are surprised; so was I when I got the invitation.”