But Lionel had turned imperatively to Lucy, drawing her to the door,
which he opened. It was no place for her, a discussion such as this.

"Will you be so kind as to go down and make me a cup of tea, Lucy?" he
said, in a wonderfully calm tone, considering the provocation he was
receiving. Then he closed the door on Lucy, and turned to his wife.

"Sibylla, allow me to request, nay, to insist, that when you have fault
to find, or reproach to cast to me, you choose a moment when we are
alone. If you have no care for what may be due to me and to yourself,
you will do well to bear in mind that something is due to others. Now,
then, tell me what you mean about Rachel Frost."

"I won't," said Sibylla. "You are killing me," and she burst into tears.

Oh, it was weary work!--weary work for him. Such a wife as this!

"In what way am I killing you?"

"Why do you leave me so much alone?"

"I have undertaken work, and I must do it. But, as to leaving you alone,
when I am with you, you scarcely ever give me a civil word."

"You are leaving me now--you are wanting to go to Verner's Pride
to-night," she reiterated with strange inconsistency, considering that
she had just insinuated he did _not_ want to go there.

"I must go there, Sibylla. I have told you why; and I have told you
truth. Again I ask you what you meant about Rachel Frost."

Sibylla flung up her hands petulantly. "I won't tell you, I say. And you
can't make me. I wish, I _wish_ Fred had not died."

She turned round on the sofa and buried her face in the cushions.
Lionel, true to the line of conduct he had carved out for himself, to
give her all possible token of respect and affection ever, whatever
might be her provocation--and all the more true to it from the very
consciousness that the love of his inmost heart grew less hers, more
another's, day by day, bent over her and spoke kindly. She flung back
her hand in a repelling manner towards him, and maintained an obstinate
silence. Lionel, sick and weary, at length withdrew, taking up the
parchment.

_How_ sick and weary, none, save himself, could know. Lucy Tempest had
the tea before her, apparently ready, when he looked into the
drawing-room.

"I am going on now to Verner's Pride, Lucy. You can tell my mother so,
should she ask after me when she returns. I may be late."

"But you will take some tea, first?" cried Lucy, in a hasty tone. "You
asked me to make it for you."

He knew he had--asked her as an