“Nothing but stare at Helen Perowne,” she said, in a low angry voice. “Surely you don’t want her to flirt with you!”
“Hush, Mary!” he said gravely. “Your words give me pain.”
“And your glances at that proud, handsome, heartless creature give me pain, Arthur,” she replied, in the same tone. “I cannot bear it.”
The Reverend Arthur sighed, let his eyes rest upon his fruit, raised them again, and found himself in time to arrest an arrow-like glance from Helen’s eyes sent the whole length of the table, and he closed his own and shuddered as if the look had given him a pang.
“I cannot get Henry to look at me,” whispered Mrs Bolter after a time. “He seems quite guilty about something, and ashamed to meet my eye. Arthur, I am sure he is drinking more wine than is good for his health.”
“Oh, no, my dear Mary,” replied her brother. “Surely Henry Bolter knows how to take care of his constitution.”
“I don’t know that,” said the little lady, with asperity, “and he keeps talking to the Princess more than I like.”
She telegraphed to the little doctor with her eyes, but in vain; he evaded summons after summons, and Mrs Bolter began to grow wroth.
Suddenly she saw him give a bit of a start, and he seemed to be watching the slaves, who were carrying round trays of little china cups full of some native wine.
Chumbley saw it too, and for a moment he felt excited, but directly after he laughed it off.