"He certainly seems to be amused by you," she said cryptically.
Leonetta did not like this way of putting it, and the conversation therefore ceased to interest her. "Are you coming?" she said, and made towards the door.
In another room Cleopatra had been listening to Agatha Fearwell's account of what had occurred at Stonechurch that morning, and the facts she culled from the girl's guileless and unsuspecting statement had not reassured her.
"Cleo, what on earth's the matter?" Agatha cried suddenly.
"Why—what?" Cleopatra rejoined, bracing herself, but turning a drawn and haggard face, that had just grown unusually pale, to her friend.
"My dear, aren't you well?"
"Quite," replied Cleopatra, parting her lips in a faint, hardly convincing smile.
"But you can't be,—sit down, do!" said Agatha.
Cleopatra made a stupendous effort to recover herself, which was singularly reminiscent of her undefeated mother. "The heat, I suppose," she observed.
But Agatha was not satisfied. She was too intelligent to be silenced by such an obvious feminine defence. She could not help drawing her own conclusions, although Cleopatra's proud reserve forbade her asking any further questions.