"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.
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?
If only he could have seen the young Count first, if only there had been time to prove that repentance had come in time to save his honour!
And now _she_ would believe in neither the one nor the other.
He groaned at the thought, passing a trembling hand across his forehead. Oh! he must prove himself--must prove himself, even if he died in doing it.
The breeze overhead chanted the name again and again, now sadly, now sweetly, alluringly, distractingly.
His heart echoed the cry, going out with wild longing to her who had won it and transformed it at one magic touch.
"Slit me! if it's not Morry himself. You sly dog! What demned mischief have you been up to now, my friend, leaving Steenie and me to cool our heels in that old rat-trap of yours?"
Jack Denningham's voice broke in sharply on a day-dream of love. It was no more welcome interruption than the sight of my lord himself, cool, suave, smiling, with a hearty clap on the shoulder to add to his upbraiding words of welcome.
But there was no response in Morice Conyers' eyes.
Since Denningham was here he might as well understand at once that there was a vast difference between the Marquis de Varenac and Beau Conyers of Carlton House fame.
"I have been attending to business," he replied coldly, "and there's more that needs looking after badly. If you take my advice, Denningham, you and Steenie will be returning to England without asking too many questions."
Seeing that a certain laurel-clump was well within earshot of the mulberry-tree, my lord was singularly obtuse.
"Business? Return to England?" he cried, with a merry chuckle. "Why, we've all come on business, and when we're tired of teaching these surly beggars of yours their Marseillaise, I'll warrant we'll all be ready enough for town, and some good jests for our Florizel, to boot. Ha! ha! Yes, we'll all return together _afterwards_."