“Eh?” He stared, aghast. Then, quickly recovering himself, he remarked:
“You were rather too young, when she died, to judge your mother’s character correctly.”
“It is true; but I remember her with abhorrence.”
“Your father, on the other hand,” observed Mr. Burthon, his face hardening, “might well deserve your hatred and aversion. He is a scoundrel.”
“I have heard him say so,” replied Sybil, smiling, “but I do not believe it. In any event his iniquity could not equal that of the Burthons.”
“We are complimentary,” said her uncle, returning the smile with seeming amusement. “But I regret to say I have no time to further converse with you to-day. Will you call again, if you have anything especial to say to me?”
“No,” replied Sybil. “You must listen to me to-day.”
“To-morrow—”
“To-morrow,” she interrupted, “you may be in prison. It is not easy to interview criminals in jail, is it?”
He looked at her now with more than curiosity; his gaze was searching, half fearful, inquiring.