"Well, I don't see, really, what concern we have with their plans. Why should we interfere? I don't attempt to stand between you and your friends; but certainly they are not people who—My dear aunt always highly disapproved of them . . . Cyril, you have tried me very much this evening—you really have!—And I am sure I have been most patient! But there are limits even to—I really do think—I really have a right—In fact, I positively insist upon knowing what is the meaning of this extraordinary behaviour."
Cyril looked down on Miss Devereux's agitated features and twirling hands.
"Very well," he answered, speaking without the least unkindness; "if you insist, you shall know. As well now as later. It means—that I am tired of home, tired of Dulveriford, tired of doing nothing. It means—that if Jean does not object, I shall go out in the same ship with Mr. Trevelyan, and take care of him. It means—that when I come back, if Jean will have me, I shall make her my wife."
For once, Sybella had no words. She could only gaze blankly, her lips and jaws dropping apart.
Cyril walked to the door, paused, came back, and stooped to give her a kiss.
"Good-night," he said pleasantly. "Don't be vexed, aunt. If I have spoken out, it is by your wish. Of course, that about Jean is in confidence. She may or may not be willing . . . Meantime you'll have two years' swing at the Brow, to do as you like—and I'll take care that you have enough money to carry you on. After that, we must make some other arrangement. I should like to build you a jolly little house, outside Dutton—near to St. John's, you know. But there's plenty of time to think things over. Good-night."
Without waiting for an answer he was gone; and Sybella was left to her own cogitations.
Jean rose from a low chair beside the drawing-room fire to greet Cyril. She seemed to have been for once enjoying the luxury of idleness; and there was a touch of mournful gravity in the look she turned upon him. It brought to Cyril's mind the pale reproachful visionary likeness which had come to him on the marshes, blotting out Emmie's face.
"It is late for a call; but you will give me a few minutes," he said. "Will you not?"
"I can spare a few minutes. It is almost bedtime."