It was Philip King. He came in, looking more cross, if possible, than he did the previous night. His face shone out sickly, too, in the bright morning sun. Selina spoke, but did not offer her hand.
"Good morning, Mr. King; I hope you feel better to-day. You did not get down to breakfast, I understand. Neither did I?"
"I did get down to breakfast," he answered, speaking as if something had very much put him out. "I took it with Mr. Edwin Barley in his study."
"Leaving George Heneage to breakfast alone. You two polite men! Had I known that, I would have come down and breakfasted with him."
That she said this in a spirit of mischief, in a manner most especially calculated to provoke him, I saw by the saucy look that shot from her bright blue eyes.
"I think you and Heneage breakfast together quite often enough as it is, Mrs. Edwin Barley."
"You do? Then, if I were you, sir, I would have the good manners to keep such thoughts to myself; or tell them to Mr. Edwin Barley, if you like. He might offer you a premium for them—who knows?"
Philip King was getting into an angry heat.
"I hope you have tolerably strong shoulders," she resumed, as if struck with some sudden thought.
"Why so?"