"No?"—raising her straight dark brows. "Is there then an enemy in the camp? Not Cyril, surely?"
"Oh, no, not Cyril."
Their voices involuntarily have sunk a little, and, though any one near can still hear distinctly, they have all the appearance of people carrying on a private conversation.
"Guy?"
Lilian is silent. Guy's face, as he still strokes the dog dreamily, has grown haughty in the extreme. He, like Mabel, awaits her answer.
"What?" says Mrs. Steyne, in an amused tone, evidently treating the whole matter as a mere jest. "So you are not a pet with Guy! How horrible! I cannot believe it. Surely Guy is not so ungallant as to have conceived a dislike for you? Guy, do you hear this awful charge she is bringing against you? Won't you refute it? Dear boy, how stern you look!"
"Do I? I was thinking of something disagreeable."
"Of me?" puts in Lilian, sotto voce, with a faint laugh tinged with bitterness. "Why should you think what I say so extraordinary? Did you ever know a guardian like his ward, or a ward like her guardian? I didn't—especially the latter. They always find each other such a mistake!"
Sir Guy, raising his head, looks full at Lilian for a moment; his expression is almost impossible to translate; then, getting up, he crosses the room deliberately and seats himself beside Florence, who welcomes him with one of her conventional smiles that now has something like warmth in it.
"I think you are a very cruel little girl," says Mrs. Steyne, gently, not looking at Lilian, and then turns the conversation in another channel.