“Ha! That’s some comfort,” sighed the lady addressed; but she frowned angrily, and the look she darted at the doctor was by no means like the last, though his was of the most abject, imploring kind.
“I can’t explain—I can’t explain,” sobbed Lady Lisle in her handkerchief. “I would sooner die, for it is all over now.”
The others exchanged looks and a whisper or two, as they drew aside from the weeping woman.
“Oh, I don’t believe it of poor old Hilt,” said Lady Tilborough.
“Neither do I,” cried the doctor.
“There is no one,” said Lady Tilborough. “Unless—” she added, as a sudden thought struck her. “No, no, no; he’s too loyal to go running after a pretty little commonplace doll like that, Jack.”
“I hope so,” said the doctor, shaking his head. “Well, here he is to answer for himself,” he added quickly, for the farther door was opened, and, clad in slippers and dressing-gown, and carrying a flat candlestick, whose light was not wanted, and looking quite himself mentally, but ghastly pale, Sir Hilton briskly entered the room.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he cried, stopping short, and looking from one to the other.
“Oh-h-h-h!” exclaimed Lady Lisle, in a long-drawn utterance expressive of her anger and disgust.
“Why, Hilt, old fellow,” cried Granton, “I thought you were ill in bed?”