There was a curious light in her eyes, reminiscent of something he had seen there the night of his confession.
"You've just remarked," she laughed, softly, "that rumours seldom materialize."
What did she mean by that? Before he could go after an answer Mrs. Sinclair came down, joined them, and explained that Sylvia was tired and didn't want any one bothered. George's exaltation increased. He hoped he had hurt her, as he had always wanted to. Blodgett, accompanied by Wandel and Dalrymple, wandered from the smoking-room, seeking news. George felt every muscle tighten, for Blodgett, at sight of Mrs. Sinclair, roared:
"Where is Sylvia?"
The gross familiarity held him momentarily convinced, then he remembered that Blodgett was eager to make progress with such people, quick to snatch at every advantage. Sylvia wasn't here to rebuke him. Under the circumstances, the others couldn't very well. As a matter of fact, they appeared to notice nothing. Of course it wasn't Blodgett.
"In her room with a headache," Mrs. Sinclair answered. "She may come down later."
"Headaches," Wandel said, "cover a multitude of whims."
George didn't like his tone. Wandel always gave you the impression of a vision subtle and disconcerting.
Dalrymple, in spite of his confused state, was caught rattling off questions at Mrs. Sinclair, too full of concern, while George watched him, wondering—wondering.
"Must have her own way," Blodgett interrupted. "Bridge! Let's cut in or make another table. George?"