"Oh, yes! they all wore bonnets or hats, I don't know which," vaguely.
"Naturally; mantillas are not yet in vogue. You are better than 'Le Follet,' Archie; your answers are so satisfactory. Did you meet any one we know?"
"Hardly any one. By the bye,"—turning curiously to Sir Guy,—"was Trant here to-day?"
"No," surprised: "why do you ask?"
"Because I met him at Truston this morning. He got out of the train by which I went on,—it seems he has been staying with the Bulstrodes,—and I fancied he was coming on here, but had not time to question him, as I barely caught the train; another minute's delay and I should have been late."
Archibald rambles on about his near escape of being late for the train, while his last words sink deep into the minds of Guy and Cyril. The former grows singularly silent; a depressed expression gains upon his face. Cyril, on the contrary, becomes feverishly gay, and with his mad observations makes merry Lilian laugh heartily.
But when luncheon is over and they all disperse, a gloom falls upon him: his features contract; doubt and a terrible suspicion, augmented by slanderous tales that forever seem to be poured into his ears, make havoc of the naturally kind expression that characterizes his face, and with a stifled sigh he turns and walks toward the billiard-room.
Guy follows him. As Cyril enters the doorway, he enters too, and, closing the door softly, lays his hand upon his shoulder.
"You heard, Cyril?" he says, with exceeding gentleness.