CHAPTER XIX
IN WHICH THE POISON BEGINS TO WORK
Spike sat glowering at the newspaper, yet very conscious, none the less, that Hermione often turned to glance at him wistfully as she bustled to and fro; at last she spoke.
"Arthur, dear—why so gloomy?"
"I ain't—I mean, I'm not."
"You're not sulking about anything?"
"No."
"Then you're sick."
"I'm all right."
"But you didn't enjoy your dinner a little bit."