WELL-NIGH WEARIED OUT.
Lionel returned late in the evening; he had been detained at Verner's Pride. Sibylla appeared sullen still. She was in her own sitting-room, upstairs, and Lucy was bearing her company. Decima was in Lady Verner's chamber.
"Have you had any dinner?" inquired Lucy. She did not ask. She would not have asked had he been starving.
"I took a bit with John Massingbird," he replied. "Is my mother better, do you know?"
"Not much, I think," said Lucy. "Decima is sitting with her."
Lionel stood in his old attitude, his elbow on the mantel-piece by his wife's side, looking down at her. Her eyes were suspiciously bright, her cheeks now shone with their most crimson hectic. It was often the case at this, the twilight hour of the evening. She wore a low dress, and the gold chain on her neck rose and fell with every breath. Lucy's neck was uncovered, too: a fair, pretty neck; one that did not give you the shudders when looked at as poor Sibylla's did. Sibylla leaned back on the cushions of her chair, toying with a fragile hand-screen of feathers; Lucy, sitting on the opposite side, had been reading; but she laid the book down when Lionel entered.
"John Massingbird desired me to ask you, Sibylla, if he should send you the first plate of grapes they cut."
"I'd rather have the first bag of walnuts they shake," answered Sibylla. "I never cared for grapes."
"He can send you both," said Lionel; but an uncomfortable, dim recollection came over him, of Jan's having told her she must not eat walnuts. For Jan to tell her not to do a thing, however—or, in fact, for anybody else—was the sure signal for Sibylla to do it.
"Does John Massingbird intend to go to-morrow evening?" inquired Sibylla.