"But when we parted he was perfectly friendly."
"I can only say," replied the courageous woman, "that you would find him considerably altered now."
Horace had no difficulty in believing it.
"At least, I may see Sylvia?" he pleaded.
"No," said Mrs. Futvoye; "I really can't have Sylvia disturbed just now. She is very busy, helping her father. Anthony has to read a paper at one of his societies to-morrow night, and she is writing it out from his dictation."
If any departure from strict truth can ever be excusable, this surely was one; unfortunately, just then Sylvia herself burst into the room.
"Mother," she cried, without seeing Horace in her agitation, "do come to papa, quick! He has just begun kicking again, and I can't manage him alone.... Oh, you here?" she broke off, as she saw who was in the room. "Why do you come here now, Horace? Please, please go away! Papa is rather unwell—nothing serious, only—oh, do go away!"
"Darling!" said Horace, going to her and taking both her hands, "I know all—do you understand?—all!"
"Mamma!" cried Sylvia, reproachfully, "have you told him—already? When we settled that even Horace wasn't to know till—till papa recovers!"
"I have told him nothing, my dear," replied her mother. "He can't possibly know, unless—but no, that isn't possible. And, after all," she added, with a warning glance at her daughter, "I don't know why we should make any mystery about a mere attack of gout. But I had better go and see if your father wants anything." And she hurried out of the room.