“Not in the least; nor does any one else here know,” replied Mr. Berners.
Suddenly Rosa looked up, started, and with a suppressed cry, muttered:
“Good heavens! Look at Sybil!”
Mr. Berners followed the direction of her gaze across the table, and even he started at the sight of Sybil’s face.
That face wore a look of anguish, despair, and desperation that seemed fixed there forever; for in all its agony of passion that tortured and writhen face was as still, cold, hard, and lifeless as marble, except that from its eyes streamed glances as from orbs of fire.
Mr. Berners suddenly turned his eyes from her, and looked up and down the table. Fortunately now every one was too busily engaged in eating, drinking, laughing, talking, flirting, and gossiping to attend to the looks of their hostess.
“I must go and speak to her,” said Lyon Berners in extreme anxiety and displeasure, as he left Rosa’s side, and made his way around the table, until he stood immediately behind his wife. He touched her on her shoulder to attract her attention. She started as if an adder had stung her, but she never looked around.
“Sybil, my dearest, you are ill. What is the matter?” he whispered, trying to avoid being overheard by others.
“Do not touch me! Do not speak to me, unless you wish to see me drop dead or go mad before you!” she answered in tones so full of suppressed energy, that he impulsively drew back.
He waited for a moment in dire dread lest the assembled company should see the state of his wife, and then he ventured to renew his efforts.