"My dear, you have thin shoes on."
"Thick enough for August."
"No, indeed. The dew was quite heavy last night. And I heard you cough yesterday."
"Cough! I don't know what it is to take cold."
Sybella's brow puckered. "Really, Evelyn, that is childish. Everybody takes cold sometimes."
"I don't."
"My dear, I cannot let you risk it. I really cannot. And, besides—"
"Yes?" Evelyn stood, careless and graceful, outside the French window of the morning-room. She was a marvellously fair young creature; but the fringed black-blue eyes, like those of her little brother in shape and colour, wore a combative expression, as they met the anxious orbs of Sybella.
"My dear, I wished—I thought I had made you understand—I should like you to give up an hour or two every morning—two hours it ought to be—to some useful occupation. Dear aunt always insisted on that with me, when I was long past your age."
Miss Devereux sighed, and her voice grew plaintive. She, like Evelyn, wore heavy mourning, not alone for Sir Theodore, but also for old Mrs. Willoughby, who had passed away within a week of General Villiers' arrival, having never so much as heard of her nephew's death.