“But it don’t matter,” she said to herself; “when I see father, he’ll understand.”
They got to town, where a carriage was waiting for them. Sibyl could scarcely restrain her eagerness.
“Mother, may I ask John if father’s likely to be at home? Sometimes he comes home earlier than usual. P’waps he came home to lunch and is waiting for us. Can I call out to John through the window, mother?”
“No, sit still, you do fidget so.”
“I’ll try to be quiet, mother; it’s only ’cos I’m so incited.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Ogilvie to herself, “what an awful evening I am likely to have! When the silly child really finds out that her father has gone, she will burst into hysterics, or do something else absurd. I really wish it had been my luck to marry a husband with a grain of sense. I wonder if I had better tell her now. No, I really cannot. Miss Winstead must do it. Miss Winstead has been having a nice holiday, with no fuss or worry of any sort, and it is quite fair that she should bear the burden of this. But why it should be regarded as a burden or a trial is a puzzle. Philip goes on a sort of pleasure expedition to Queensland, and the affair is treated almost as if—as if it were a death. It is positively uncanny.”
Sibyl noticed that her mother was silent, and that she looked worried. Presently she stretched out her hand and stroked her mother’s.
“What are you doing that for?”
“’Cos I thought I’d rub you the right way,” said Sibyl. “You are like a poor cat when it is rubbed the wrong way, aren’t you, just now, mother?”
“Don’t be so ridiculous.” Mrs. Ogilvie snatched her hand away.