The colonel rose as she spoke.
"What is the matter?" he asked. "Why are you surprised?"
"What have you been saying to Sylvia, Richard?" enquired Miss Wimpole, not moving.
It would have been hard to hit upon a question more certain to embarrass the colonel. He felt the difficulty of his position so keenly that, old as he was, a faint colour rose in his cheeks. No answer occurred to him, and he hesitated.
"She has locked herself up in her room," continued Miss Wimpole, with searching severity, "and she is crying as though her heart would break. I heard her sobbing as I passed the door, and she would not let me in."
"I am very sorry," said the colonel, gravely.
"You do not seem much concerned," retorted his sister. "I insist upon knowing what is the matter."
"Girls often cry," observed Colonel Wimpole, who felt obliged to say something, though he did not at all know what to say.
"Sylvia does not often cry, Richard, and you know it. You must have said something very unkind to her."
"I hope not," answered the colonel, evasively.