The young creatures, looking in each other’s eyes, listened for raised voices and the slam of prompt expulsion; but the voices were pitched too low to reach their ears in words, and were only interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hall, and the perfectly passive closing of an outer and an inner door in quick succession.
“He’s taken him into the dining-room,” murmured Phillida. “Who can it be?”
“Hasn’t he any friends?”
“None who ever come here; none of that name anywhere, I feel sure.” Her great eyes, without leaving his for an instant, filled with thought as a blank screen takes a shadow. “I wonder if it’s about that!” she whispered.
“What?”
“What they were calling out with the newspapers while we were at table.”
There was a pause. The look in her eyes had changed. It was purely penetrating now.
“Why should it be?” asked Pocket, his own eyes falling.
“It’s no use asking me, Mr. Upton.”
“But I don’t understand the question.”