"I—that is—it was the fire," confusedly, directing a wrathful glance at him, which is completely thrown away, as Mr. Musgrave is impervious to hints: "I was sitting close to it."
"That goes without telling. Any one would imagine by your color, you had been put upon the hob to simmer. By the bye,"—a most fortunate access of ignorance carrying his thoughts into another channel,—"what is a hob? I don't believe I ever saw one."
"Hob, substantive, short for goblin: as hobgoblin," says Cyril at this moment, having entered, how, or from where, nobody knows. "Still bent upon historical research?"
"It has something to do with kettles, I think," says Taffy. "I don't quite believe your meaning for it."
"Don't you? I am sorry for you. I do. But some people never will learn."
"That is true," says Lilian, somewhat abruptly. Involuntarily her eyes fall on Chesney. He has been staring in moody silence at the fire since Chetwoode's entrance, but now, at her words, straightens himself, and gives way to a low, rather forced, laugh.
"Experientia docet," says Guy, in a queer tone impossible to translate. "Time is a stern school-master, who compels us against our will,"—letting his eyes meet Lilian's—"to learn many things."
"It has taught me one thing," puts in Cyril, who looks half amused,—"that the dressing-bell has rung some time since."
"Has it?" says Lilian, rising with alacrity, and directing a very grateful glance at him: "I never heard it. I shall scarcely have time now to get ready for dinner. Why did you not tell me before?"
As she speaks, she sweeps by him, and he, catching her hand, detains her momentarily.