"I beg your pardon, Sir Everard. My lady is—is she not here?"
"Lady Kingsland is asleep. Do you wish to deliver that note?"
With a second gesture of seeming confusion, Sybilla hid the hand which held it in the folds of her dress.
"Yes—no—it doesn't matter. It can wait, I dare say. He didn't mention being in a hurry."
"He! Of whom are you speaking, Sybilla?"
"I—I chanced to pass through the picture-gallery five minutes ago, Sir Everard, and Mr. Parmalee asked me to do him the favor of handing this note to my lady."
Sir Everard Kingsland's face was the face of a man utterly confounded.
"Mr. Parmalee asked you to deliver that note to Lady Kingsland?" he slowly repeated. "What under heaven can he have to write to my lady about?"
"I really don't know, Sir Everard," rejoined Sybilla, "I only know he asked me to deliver it. He had been looking for my lady's maid, I fancy, in vain. It is probably something about his tiresome pictures. Will you please to take it, Sir Everard, or shall I wait until my lady awakes?"
"You may leave it."