It was a cold kiss; a careless matter-of-fact sort of kiss à la matrimony. She made no response in words, or else; but the hot crimson dyed her cheeks, as she contrasted it with a certain other kiss bestowed by him on somebody else not long before; that was passionate enough; rather too much so. Had he noticed, he might have seen his wife press her hand sharply upon her bosom; as if she might be trying to hide its tumultuous throbbing.
"And how does the house get on, Robert?" asked Mrs. Chester, lifting her head to speak.
"Slower than ever. You'll have us here until Christmas, Penelope, according to the present lookout."
"I hope I shall; although Clara"--turning towards her--"does seem in a fidget to get back."
Clara seemed in a fidget about nothing, just then; she was sitting perfectly still, her face and her eyes cast down. Robert Lake ran on, in his own fashion, turning his attention upon the dressmaker now.
"Working for your life as usual, Miss Cooper! What is that you are cutting out? A pair of pantaloons for me?"
"It's a pair of sleeves, sir."
"Oh, sleeves; I feared they'd hardly be large enough. By the way, when is that inquest to be brought to an end?"
"I wish I knew, sir," she answered.
"And nothing has been decided in regard to your brother yet!"