Sybil sighed heavily.
"Of what are you thinking?" asked Laurence.
"I hardly know—I can not tell."
"I see that you are troubled," he said, violently. "Sybil, you have called yourself my friend; answer me: do you believe that Hinchley loves Margaret?"
Sybil hesitated; her head was averted, as if she could not bear to meet his earnest gaze.
"I have ceased to believe that she cares greatly for me. Tell me if you think Hinchley is more to her than a cousin and friend."
"Do not ask me; mine are only vague suspicions. I can not be the one to destroy your last hope of happiness."
"I am answered," he said, gloomily.
"No, no; I will not—I can not answer! Look for yourself, Mr. Laurence. I may be wrong. I have very strict and, what people might think, singular ideas. Oh! don't mind what I have said."
"I will see for myself," he answered, recklessly. "Let me once be convinced, and I shall leave her forever. Oh, Sybil! you are my friend—the only one to whom I can turn for sympathy."