"Who is it from, Cyril?"
No answer.
"You know, of course. I see you know. Is anything really the matter? Anything really wrong? One would think it was a bill—from your face!" suggested Sybella, recalling stories of extravagant young men and distressed guardians.
She was not Cyril's guardian now, but her mind was unable to acquiesce in the change wrought by his coming of age.
"A bad bill perhaps!" she went on—without the slightest idea what is meant technically by a "bad bill."
She had heard the term, and it recurred conveniently.
"My dear boy, you had much better make a clean breast of it all. Much better! Far better!" She came near, and laid a hand on his wrist, with an air of advice and interest. "You know I would so gladly help."
"Thanks!" Cyril withdrew his arm from her touch—rather pettishly, it must be confessed, but how could he help it?
He stood upright, holding the mantelpiece; his face colourless, while a surging like the sound of waves filled his ears. Nevertheless, he forced his lips into a smile.
"I have no bad bills; and I have plenty of money. My tastes are not so very extravagant. Much obliged to you all the same. If you have nothing more to say, perhaps you would be so kind as to leave me to myself for half-an-hour. I have—things to do—"