"I am sorry!" she said. "He will think I was staring at him—and so I was. And that will seem so cruel to him, poor fellow."
"What is cruel? which poor fellow?" demanded Lisle with feeble impatience.
"Some one who has just got out of the fly, dear; a cripple, poor fellow; and he saw me watching him." And she sighed again.
"Eh?" said Lisle, as if he were trying to recollect something. "Ah, yes, I remember. Mrs. Whiting told me that he was expected some time to-day; they had a telegram saying he was coming."
"He? Who?" said Leslie, going back to the piano.
"Who?" repeated Lisle, as if he were heartily sorry he had continued the subject. "Why, this young man. Dear me, I forget his name and title——."
"Title? Poor fellow! Is he a nobleman, papa? That makes it seem so much worse, doesn't it?"
Lisle looked round at her helplessly.
"Upon my word, my dear," he said, "I do not wish to appear dense, but I haven't the least idea of what you are talking about, and——," he went on more quietly, as if he feared she were going to explain, "it doesn't matter. Pray sing something, and—and do not let us worry about things which do not concern us."