Just for a minute or two Mr. Leeson bore the loving caress and the endearing words. She was very sweet, and she was his—his only child—bone of his bone. Yes, it was nicer to be warm than cold, nicer to be loved than to be hated, nicer to——But was he loved? Those trunks up-stairs; that costly, useless finery; those initials which were not Sylvia’s!
“Oh that I could tell her!” he said to himself. “She pretends; she is untrue—untrue as our first mother. What woman was ever yet to be trusted?”
“Go, Sylvia,” he replied vehemently; and he started up and shook her off cruelly, so that she fell and hurt herself.
She rose, pushed her hair back from her forehead and gazed at him in bewilderment. Was he going mad?
“Come and eat your dinner before it gets cold,” she said. “It is extravagant to waste good food; come and eat it.”
“Made from some of those old fowls?” he queried; and a scornful smile curled his lips.
“Come and eat it; it costs you practically nothing,” she added. “Come, it is extravagant to waste it.”
He pondered in his own mind; there were still about three fowls left. He would not take her hand but he followed her into the dining-room. He sat down before the dainty dish, helped her to a small portion, and ate the rest.
“Now you are better,” she said cheerfully.
He gave her a glance which seemed to her to be one of almost venom.