"Stay with me here," she begged him. "I will go up to the Marquess's room and see if he is well enough to be told that you are here. I fear that you will not be able to see him. And you must have something to eat," she said, with womanly consideration.
"Thank you, my dear, I need nothing," he said.
As he spoke, the door was opened, none too gently, and Heyton stood on the threshold. He looked from Celia to the old man with what was intended to be a stare of haughty surprise; but was, in reality, a kind of sullen insolence.
"Oh? Who is this?" he demanded.
"A friend of your father's, Lord Heyton," said Mr. Clendon, before Celia could speak. "So old and so dear a friend that he is warranted in intruding, even at such a moment."
"Well, you are intruding, right enough, though you may be an old friend," said Heyton, thickly. "My father is very ill, dangerously ill, as you may have heard. This is no time for—for visitors."
"Forgive me," said Mr. Clendon gently, but with a calmness and dignity that impressed even the only half-sober Heyton, "but my intrusion is justified, as Lord Sutcombe will bear me out, when he knows I am here."
"Oh, well," said Heyton, with an insolent shrug of his shoulders. "I can't speak any more plainly. If you can't take a hint—but it doesn't matter; I'm quite certain that you can't see my father, even if he can be told that you are here."
"We will see," said Mr. Clendon.
Heyton looked at him for a moment, angrily and a trifle suspiciously; then he swung on his heel and went out.