“Tell the marquis that Mr. Spenser Churchill has arrived, please.”
The groom did not look surprised, but merely bowed as he departed.
The drawing-room was empty, and the two men stood talking for a minute; then the groom came and led Mr. Spenser Churchill to wash his hands, and Lord Neville went up to his room. As he came down the luncheon bell rang, and he led Spenser Churchill into the dining-room.
The marquis was already seated, and Lord Neville was about to explain Spenser’s presence, when he saw the marquis give a start, and as he rose and extended his hand, Neville fancied that he noticed a peculiar twitch of the thin, colorless lips.
“Ah! Spenser,” said his lordship, and he spoke, Lord Neville thought, with something less than his usual cold and biting hauteur, “this is a surprise! Pray be seated,” and he himself sank into his chair, with no trace of the mental disturbance in his face or manner, if there had, indeed, been any.
“Yes, it is a surprise,” said Spenser Churchill, softly, taking his seat, and unfolding his napkin, as if he had been lunching at the same table for months past; “I was so fortunate as to meet our dear Neville in the—er—fields, I may say, where he was roaming in happy and poetic solitude, and he was kind enough to assure me of a welcome if I came on with him.”
“His assurance was—on this occasion—justified,” said the marquis, with a cold glance at the young man.
Spenser Churchill smiled, as if the taunting and exasperating speech were one of the most amiable.
“Thanks,” he murmured; “and you are well, I hope, marquis?”
“I am never ill,” replied his lordship, as if he were quite incapable of such vulgarity.