“Sphinx No. 2,” said Alice.
A gentle ripple passed through Charley’s moustache. He began to twist one end of it. “It may be all imagination,” he began, “but I fancied, at least, that when you spoke to him this morning of his mother—” And he paused.
“Ah, I remember. I recollect a look of pain. Yes, I remember perfectly,—his face clouded up instantly. Yes, you are quite right, Mr. Frobisher.”
“He always is,” whispered Lucy to me, with a smile.
“Always,” said I.
Mary gave a sigh. “Now, girls, I suppose we are never to learn who this Sphinx is.”
“Never, never on earth,” sighed Alice, in return.
“Yes,” said Lucy, “we shall yet know him; I feel that we shall.”
“You always were a dear, encouraging creature,” said Alice, passing her arm round Lucy’s waist and leaning her head languidly upon her shoulder. “I shall never forgive you, Mr. Frobisher. By this time, but for you—oh, it was too cruel!”
“Never despair!” And he started on his way upstairs.