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Lionel read it
all. Happening to glance across the table, he caught the eyes of Lucy
Tempest fixed upon him with an open expression of wonder. Wonder at
what? At his believing in Sibylla? It might be. With all Lucy's
straightforward plainness, she would have been one of the last to storm
Lionel's abode, and take refuge in it. A retort, defending Sibylla, had
been upon Lionel's tongue, but that gaze stopped it.
"How long does she purpose honouring Verner's Pride with her presence,
and keeping you out of it?" resumed Lady Verner.
"I do not know what her plans for the present may be," he answered, his
cheeks burning at the thought of the avowal he had to make--that her
future plans would be contingent upon his. Not the least painful of the
results which Lionel's haste had brought in its train, was the knowledge
of the shock it would prove to his mother, whom he so loved and
reverenced. Why had he not thought of it at the time?
Breakfast over, Lionel went out, a very coward. A coward, in so far as
that he had shrunk from making yet the confession.


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