“And you'll see that I am not disturbed; and you'll explain it to Kitty, with my apologies?”
“Yes.”
“Then I'm off.”
Gabriel glanced at his brother with a perplexed smile. Here was the bored traveler, explorer, gold-seeker, soldier of fortune, actually as pleased as a girl over the prospect of arranging his room! He called after him, “Sylvester!”
“Yes.”
“I say, if you could, you know, just try to interest these people to-night with some of your adventures—something told SERIOUSLY, you know, as if you really were in earnest—I'd be awfully obliged to you. The fact is,—you'll excuse me,—but they think you don't come up to your reputation.”
“They want a story?”
“Yes,—one of your experiences.”
“I'll give them one. Ta-ta!”
For the rest of the day Uncle Sylvester was invisible, although his active presence in his room was betrayed by the sound of hammering and moving of furniture. As the remainder of the party were skating on the lake, this eccentricity was not remarked except by one,—Marie du Page,—who on pretense of a slight cold had stayed at home. But with her suspicions of the former night, she had determined to watch the singular relative of her friend. Added to a natural loyalty to the Lanes, she was moved by a certain curiosity and fascination towards this incomprehensible man.