"Except him," corrected Mrs. Penn, with emphasis. "With all his sins, Harry Chandos is a gentleman and would give you an answer."
I shook my head. It was not my place, a young visitor there on sufferance, to inquire of things they seemed to wish not inquired of: and I said as much to Mrs. Penn.
"You are too fastidious, Miss Hereford; you are no better than a schoolgirl. Look here," she added, turning briskly, "this is the workbox. I will show you where the lace was."
It was a large, handsome box; a beautiful box; tortoiseshell inlaid with silver, its fittings of silver and sky-blue velvet; its scissors (save the steel part), its thimble, bodkin, and stiletto of gold.
"I wonder they did not take these as well as the lace."
"They might be afraid to do that," said Mrs. Penn. "See!" she cried, lifting the tray, "that's where it lay. It was a very handsome piece of lace, and I am sorry to lose it."
The sweeping of a silk dress along the corridor gave token of the approach of Mrs. Chandos. She passed into the east wing and Mrs. Penn hastened after her. Standing at the door of the west wing, as if he had attended Mrs. Chandos from it, was Mr. Chandos. He saw us both come out of the library.
Where he had his dinner that day I don't know. Mine was over and the things were taken away before I saw him again. I had been upstairs for a book and met him in the hall. He followed me to the oak-parlour and threw himself into a chair, like one utterly weary.
"You have not been walking much, have you, Mr. Chandos?"
"Not much; my foot's too weak yet. I have been taking a turn or two in the pine-walk. And you? Have you been spirit-gazing again?"