“Oh, nothing!” I answered. “I thought that de Cartienne was ill, that’s all.”
Cecil glanced at him curiously.
“By George! he does look rather white about the gills, doesn’t he? Say, old chap, are you ill?”
de Cartienne shook his head.
“Oh, it’s nothing!” he said carelessly. “Don’t all stare at me as though I were some sort of natural curiosity, please. I feel a bit queer, but it’s passing off. I think, if Miss Milly will allow me, I’ll go and sit down in the other room by myself for a few minutes.”
“I’ll come with you!” exclaimed Cecil, springing up. “Poor old chap!”
“No, don’t, please!” protested de Cartienne. “I would rather be alone; I would indeed. I shall be all right directly.”
He quitted the room by another door, and we three were left alone. Cecil and Miss Milly began a conversation in a low tone, and I, feeling somewhat de trop, took up a local newspaper and affected to be engaged in its contents. After a few minutes, however, Cecil remembered my existence.
“By the bye, Milly,” he said, “Morton was asking you whether you had not a photograph of your father. There’s one in the sitting-room, isn’t there?”
She nodded.