"Then where did you go?"
"Through the marshes."
Sybella lifted horror-struck hands.
"You are soaking wet—up to your knees. Almost up to your knees."
"Yes."
Sybella burst into tears, overcome by this new masterfulness of spirit in her coddled darling. "I'm sure I can't think what has come over you, Cyril. You are not a bit like yourself. Jean Trevelyan—"
"I shall get ready for dinner," Cyril broke in coldly, and he walked out of the room, cutting short the renewed accusation.
Dinner was an uncomfortable meal for both. Cyril was far too chilled and too much fatigued to have any appetite; and Sybella was too greatly offended to speak on any subject except that of his misdemeanours, which could hardly be discussed in Pearce's presence.
She had meant to carry on her lecture during dessert, but Cyril declined all dainties, and Sybella resolved to make haste to the drawing-room, where interruptions were not likely.
On the way, however, she was delayed by a note from Mrs. Kennedy, requiring a verbal answer, and when she reached the drawing-room, Cyril was dead-asleep on a low couch—not lying down, but dropped in a careless heap. He looked so young, and withal so sweet, with the long even lashes lying on his cheeks, and the half childish lips parted, that Sybella's mood softened. She sat and watched him till coffee came in, and then, after rousing him to take a cup, her lecture resolved itself into—