"What! not even Billy?"
"Not even Billy," I say firmly.
----
We get through dinner almost without a comment. My sudden overflow of geniality has entirely forsaken me. I am as mute, as depressed, as in those first days at Hazelton.
Rising from the table as soon as custom will permit me I make my way to the drawing-room, where I sit in moody discontent.
I am wretched—most miserable; doubly so in that I can see no plan of escape from my troubles lying clear before me. I rest my aching head on my hands and try to think; bit always his saddened face and averted eyes are to be seen. We are so close, yet so divided. Only a wall or two, a door, a passage, but miles might be said to separate us, so far apart are we in sympathy. At this moment I know he is sitting in the library, silent, companionless.
And then a great desire rises within me. Throwing aside my book, with a nervous determination, I walk down the drawing-room, through the door, across the hall, never pausing until I find myself before the library door.
I knock hurriedly, lest by any chance my ebbing courage should entirely evaporate; and my heart almost dies within me, as the well-known voice calls out, "Come in."
I open, and advance a few steps into the room. A slight fire is burning in the grate it is the beginning of September, and already the evenings show symptoms of coming cold; Marmaduke is seated at the table, busily engaged, with writing materials all around him.
"What is it, Phyllis?" he asks, expectantly, the pen still in his hand.