"Good-by, now," said Sybil; "I shall miss the train if I stop another moment."
The woman followed her to the door, whispered some added parting advice, and watched her disappear down the stairs. Then she returned to the room and set about preparing herself a cup of tea, chuckling occasionally in a sharp way, like a meditative macaw, and looking altogether so unpleasant that a timid person would have been reluctant to remain alone in the chamber with her.
As Miss Chase predicted, dinner was over when she reached Mr. Waring's residence. She quietly disposed of her own repast which the housekeeper had condescended to set aside for her, and then, after changing her dress, went down into the library.
Mr. Laurence was sitting there alone, looking sullen and discontented enough; but he brightened somewhat when she entered, and greeted her cheerfully.
"I am glad you have come; I began to think I should have to spend the evening by myself, as Hinchley is busy with his uncle."
"Where is Miss Waring?" Sybil asked.
"In her own room, pouting or crying, according to the stage her ill-humor has reached."
Sybil sighed and shook her head.
"Are you blaming me?" he asked. "It was not my fault that we quarreled, but Margaret would provoke a saint! I could not tell to save my life, what the disturbance began about. I think I said one could not breathe in this room for the flowers; with that she worked herself into a violent rage, as if I had committed some unpardonable enormity."
"You should be patient," said Miss Chase.