She looked at me in silence. The expression of her eyes thrilled me strangely,—it was not tender or wistful, but fierce, passionate and commanding.
“I saw Miss Chesney for a few moments just now”—I resumed,—“She seemed very unhappy.”
“She has nothing to be unhappy about—” said Sibyl coldly—“except the time my mother takes in dying. But she is young; she can afford to wait a little for the Elton coronet.”
“Is not——may not this be a mistaken surmise of yours?” [p 198] I ventured gently—“Whatever her faults, I think the girl admires and loves you.”
She smiled scornfully.
“I want neither her love nor her admiration,”—she said—“I have few women-friends and those few are all hypocrites whom I mistrust. When Diana Chesney is my step-mother, we shall still be strangers.”
I felt I was on delicate ground, and that I could not continue the conversation without the risk of giving offence.
“Where is your friend?” asked Sibyl suddenly, apparently to change the subject—“Why does he so seldom come here now?”
“Rimânez? Well, he is a very queer fellow, and at times takes an abhorrence for all society. He frequently meets your father at the club, and I suppose his reason for not coming here is that he hates women.”
“All women?” she queried with a little smile.