Hilda turned her head as if about to reply hastily, but checked herself, and resumed her task of setting the music in order.
“How could I whistle,” she asked gently, “when I was in the kitchen doling out medicated cotton-wool to Mrs. Sender?”
Molly looked puzzled.
“Did you whistle, Sidney?” she asked.
“I—no; I was half-asleep over a law-book in my own room.”
“I expect he has gone for a stroll, and forgotten the time,” suggested Mrs. Carew reassuringly, as she sat down to work again.
“But what about the whistle; are you sure you heard it, Molly?” asked Hilda, speaking rather more quickly than was habitual with her. She walked towards the window and drew aside the curtain, keeping her back turned towards the room.
“Yes,” answered Molly uneasily. “Yes—I heard it, and so did he, for he went out at once.”
Sidney stood awkwardly with his shoulder against the mantelpiece, listening in a half-hearted way to his sisters' conversation. With a heavy jerk he threw himself upright and slowly crossed the room. He stood for some moments immediately behind Hilda without touching her. Then he raised his hand and with gentle, almost caressing pressure round her waist, he made her step aside so that he could pass out. He was a singularly undemonstrative man, rarely giving way to what he considered the weakness of a caress. Fortunately, however, for their own happiness, his womenfolk understood him, and especially between himself and Hilda there existed a peculiar unspoken sympathy.
In the ordinary way he would have mumbled—