She looked at him with a feeling of baffled anxiety painted on her face; and as she turned away, she beamed with a fresh inspiration. “I will get you a book.” She flew into the reception-room and back again, but she only had the book that she had herself been reading.
“Perhaps you would like to read this? I've finished it. I was just looking back through it.”
“Thank you; I guess I don't want to read any, just now.”
She leaned against the side of the dining-table, beyond which Lemuel sat, and searched his fallen countenance with a glance contrived to be at once piercing and reproachful. “I see,” she said, “you have not forgiven me.”
“Forgiven you?” repeated Lemuel blankly.
“Yes—for giving way to my agitation in speaking to you.”
“I don't know,” said Lemuel, with a sigh of deep inward trouble, “as I noticed anything.”
“I told you to light the gas in the basement,” suggested Sibyl, “and then I told you to light it up here, and then—I scolded you.”
“Oh yes,” admitted Lemuel: “that.” He dropped his head again.
Sibyl sank upon the edge of a chair. “Lemuel! you have something on your mind?”