“Ah, no, that is always so delightful of you!” said Spenser. “Our dear Neville enjoys the famous Stoyle constitution also; he is never ill, are you, Neville?”
“No,” said Neville, grimly, and without lifting his eyes from his plate.
“I have always been given to understand that the possession of rude health is the privilege of the fool,” remarked the marquis. “Of course, we are the exceptions from the rule.”
“Exactly,” murmured Spenser again, as if this were the most charming of compliments. “Some of us, alas, have become convinced that we have hearts and livers!”
“Not all of us—so far as the hearts are concerned,” said Neville, curtly.
The marquis almost smiled; to goad any one into a retort made him as nearly happy as it was possible for him to be.
“Where are you staying? You will come on here, of course?” he said.
“I am staying at the hotel at Barton. I think they call it the ‘Royal.’ It would be quite too charming if it did not smell so strongly of stale tobacco and coffee. Thanks, yes, I shall be very glad.”
The marquis looked at the butler, the look meaning: “Send for Mr. Spenser Churchill’s luggage.” The butler glided from the room.
“You find us quite a merry party,” said the marquis. “We have another visitor besides Neville——”