"No," Elfie answered. Amid the buzz of voices, my question was unheard by others.
"You are sure?" I asked gravely; for the carnation-tints had faded, and the little brown lustreless face of an hour earlier had come back.
"No, it's nothing. Only neuralgia. I often have that, and nobody thinks anything of it. Please don't say a word to the others."
"Poor child!" I responded pityingly: and the sombre eyes glanced up into mine with so singular an expression, that I said, "Elfie, are you really only sixteen?"
"Sixteen and a half," she answered sedately. "But everybody says I'm much the oldest of any of them,—except Thyrza."
There was another sharp movement.
"My dear, I am sure you are in bad pain," I could not help saying.
"Oh no, not all the time. It's only just when a sort of stab comes, I can't keep quite still then. But I promised I wouldn't give way. Please don't say anything."
A sudden flush of tears had filled her eyes, and she swept her little hand across them, giving me a grateful look as she moved aside into the throng of Mr. Romilly's satellites. A few minutes later the gong sounded, and we all went to the dining-room.