Here she lets her small white teeth meet in her fruit with all the airs of a little gourmande, and a most evident enjoyment of its flavor.
There is a pause.
Cyril has left the room in search of his cigar-case. Lady Chetwoode has disappeared to explore the library for her everlasting knitting. Sir Guy and Lilian are alone.
"I cannot remember having ever accused you of being frivolous, either in conversation or manner," says Chetwoode, presently, in a low, rather angry tone.
"No?" says naughty Lilian, with a shrug: "I quite thought you had. But your manner is so expressive at times, it leaves no occasion for mere words. This morning when I made some harmless remark to Cyril, you looked as though I had committed murder, or something worthy of transportation for life at the very least."
"I cannot remember that either. I think you purposely misunderstand me."
"What a rude speech! Oh, if I had said that! But see how late it is," looking at the clock: "you are wasting all these precious minutes here that might be spent so much more—profitably with your cousin."
"You mean you are in a hurry to be rid of me," disdaining to notice her innuendo; "go,—don't let me detain you from Cyril and his cigar."
He turns away abruptly, and gives the bell a rather sharp pull. He is so openly offended that Lilian's heart smites her.