"Why, my lady, he is a poet and a gentleman."
"A poet and a gentleman!" repeated the duchess. "That is high praise."
"He deserves it, your grace. He has written a book—I cannot say whether it has been read among the great people; but, with such as us, the verses are on the lips of every man, woman and child."
"What is the poet's name?" asked Lady Estelle.
"Earle Moray, my lady. He lives near us, and his father was a clergyman. His mother is a very quiet, grave lady. She always thought that Doris was my daughter, and when she heard the truth she was quite unwilling for her son to make such a marriage. But he talked her over."
Lady Estelle used her fan vigorously; her face had suddenly grown burning red.
"They are very much attached to each other," continued Mark. "I never saw anything like the way in which he worships her. I am sure that if he lost her he would go mad."
"Let us hope not," said the duchess, with a smile. "Going mad is a very serious matter."
"Then," said the low, sweet voice of Lady Estelle, "your protegee is provided for, Mr. Brace? Her future is safe?"
"I hope so, my lady," said cautious Mark. "But as the wedding does not take place for a year, much may happen in that time."