“Who can scarcely be counted a visitor,” murmured Spenser.
“Really, that is scarcely fair,” said the marquis, blandly. “Neville has his faults, but he is not quite the nonentity you would represent him.”
Neville raised his head, stung to a retort, when the door opposite him opened and Lady Grace entered.
She was charming, perfectly dressed, looking like a vision of one of Lippo Lippi’s angels.
“I’m afraid I’m late——” she began, lightly, then her eyes fell upon Spenser’s smiling face, and her own paled. For a second she stood still and put out her hand as if seeking something to support her, then her face resumed its usual serenity, and with a smile she came forward.
“Mr. Spenser Churchill! Really! What a nice surprise!”
“How good, how kind of you to say so!” he sang, as he bent over her hand.
“I am always good and kind; I can’t help it. Well, Lord Neville, how have you been amusing yourself?” she went on, as he rose and arranged her chair for her.
“Under melancholy boughs in the woods, musing in moody meditation, mentally morbid!” said Spenser Churchill. “I found him beside a purling brook, composing sonnets, Lady Grace.”
“Or dreaming of last night’s Juliet?” she said, smiling.