"I won't," said Sibylla. "You are killing me," and she burst into tears.
Oh, it was weary work!—weary work for him. Such a wife as this!
"In what way am I killing you?"
"Why do you leave me so much alone?"
"I have undertaken work, and I must do it. But, as to leaving you alone, when I am with you, you scarcely ever give me a civil word."
"You are leaving me now—you are wanting to go to Verner's Pride to-night," she reiterated with strange inconsistency, considering that she had just insinuated he did not want to go there.
"I must go there, Sibylla. I have told you why; and I have told you truth. Again I ask you what you meant about Rachel Frost."
Sibylla flung up her hands petulantly. "I won't tell you, I say. And you can't make me. I wish, I wish Fred had not died."
She turned round on the sofa and buried her face in the cushions. Lionel, true to the line of conduct he had carved out for himself, to give her all possible token of respect and affection ever, whatever might be her provocation—and all the more true to it from the very consciousness that the love of his inmost heart grew less hers, more another's, day by day, bent over her and spoke kindly. She flung back her hand in a repelling manner towards him, and maintained an obstinate silence. Lionel, sick and weary, at length withdrew, taking up the parchment.
How sick and weary, none, save himself, could know. Lucy Tempest had the tea before her, apparently ready, when he looked into the drawing-room.