Only a moment did Sybil listen.
Five minutes, ten, and still they talked, and still Sybil stood, moveless and intent. Then, drawing back suddenly, she ran hurriedly down the hall, and had gained the foot of the stairs before the sound of the opening door admonished her that she had escaped none too soon.
In a moment she had entered the drawing room, and, with more of her olden gayety than they had seen in her manner for many long days, approached the loiterers at the piano.
"Mother! mother! your hand is out of time!" and, in a moment, she had drawn her astonished mother from the stool, and seated herself in the vacant place.
"Sing, Frank," she commanded, striking the keys with a crash that died away in discord. "We have been dull too long."
When Jasper Lamotte and his model son-in-law entered the drawing room, they found Frank singing, Sybil accompanying him with dextrous fingers, and Mrs. Lamotte half resting near them, with veiled eyes, and her serenest cast of countenance.
Casting one keen glance toward Burrill, which, being interpreted, meant, "I told you so, you fool," Mr. Lamotte seated himself beside his wife.