“No, not happy,” she echoed, in a broken voice.
“Dear Rosa! what can I do to make you happy?” he tenderly inquired.
“You? What can you do? Oh!—But I forget myself! I know not what I say! I must leave you, Mr. Berners!” she exclaimed, in well-acted alarm, as she snatched her hand from his grasp and fled from the room.
Mr. Berners looked after her, sighed heavily, and then began to walk thoughtfully up and down the room.
Sybil, from her covert, watched him, and grimly nodded her head. Then she also slipped away.
An hour later than this, the three, Mr. and Mrs. Berners and Mrs. Blondelle, were in the drawing-room together.
“You promised me some music,” whispered Lyon to Rosa.
“Oh yes; and I will give you some. I am so glad you like my poor songs. I am so happy when I can do anything at all to please you,” she murmured in reply, lifting her humid blue eyes to his face.
“Everything you do pleases me,” he answered, in a very low voice.
Sybil was not standing very near them, yet, with ears sharpened by jealousy, she overheard the whole of that short colloquy, and—treasured it up.