His glance was significant.
"Have you by chance met my cousin, the Marquis de Varenac, this morning, Monsieur?" he questioned smoothly.
Lord Denningham forgot to inhale the delicate aroma of the snuff as he turned scowling away—a curse on his lips.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE MEETING IN THE FOREST
Morice Conyers stood leaning against the gnarled trunk of a mulberry-tree.
It mattered nothing to him that his view was bounded by a cluster of shrubs and a stone wall; he was gazing at neither.
What was Cécile thinking of him now? What was she saying? What doing?
Each question was a torture.