Part 27 (2/2)

In a moment she had entered the drawing room, and, with more of her olden gayety than they had seen in her manner for many long days, approached the loiterers at the piano.

”Mother! mother! your hand is out of time!” and, in a moment, she had drawn her astonished mother from the stool, and seated herself in the vacant place.

”Sing, Frank,” she commanded, striking the keys with a crash that died away in discord. ”We have been dull too long.”

When Jasper Lamotte and his model son-in-law entered the drawing room, they found Frank singing, Sybil accompanying him with dextrous fingers, and Mrs. Lamotte half resting near them, with veiled eyes, and her serenest cast of countenance.

Casting one keen glance toward Burrill, which, being interpreted, meant, ”I told you so, you fool,” Mr. Lamotte seated himself beside his wife.

John Burrill, during his interview with his father-in-law, had become a shade more reasonable, and less inclined to think that, in order to vindicate his wounded sensibilities, he must ”have it out with Sybil.”

But his face still wore a surly look, and Frank, who was not over delicate in such matters, looked askance at him, and then whispered to Sybil, under cover of a softly played interlude that he ”scented battle afar off.”

Sybil's only answer was a low, meaning laugh, and when he had finished his song, she played on and on and on. _Sonata, bravura, fantasia, rondo_; a crash and whirl--rapid, swift, sweet, brilliant, cold; no feeling, no pathos. A fanciful person might have traced something of exultation and defiance, in those das.h.i.+ng, rippling waves of music.

Presently she stopped and turned to Frank.

”What shall you do in the morning?” she asked, abruptly.

Frank ran his fingers through his hair, after a fas.h.i.+on he much affected, and replied, slowly:

”Well, really! Nothing important. Going to ride to the office--meaning Heath's office, not the mills. Can I do anything for you, sis?”

”I was thinking,” began Sybil, as unconcernedly as if she did not know that she was about to astonish, more than she had already done, every one of her listeners, ”that it would be a fine morning for a canter; that is, if to-morrow should be a counterpart of to-day; and I am hungry to be in the saddle.”

Frank roused himself from his lazy position, and looked interested. He took a secret delight in annoying Burrill, when he could do it without too much openness or display of _malice prepense_; and here was one of his opportunities.

”Well, Sybil, you shan't be hungering in vain,” he replied, gallantly.

”Name your hour, and your steed, and I will even sacrifice my last best morning nap, if need be.”

Sybil laughed lightly.

”We will have a moderately seasonable breakfast, Frank, not to make your sacrifice too great; and I will ride Gretchen. Poor thing! she will have almost forgotten me now.”

”Then that is settled,” replied Frank, tranquilly, and glancing furtively toward Burrill, who was beginning to wriggle uneasily in his chair. ”Do you want to go anywhere in particular, sis?”

”No, unless you leave me for awhile at Wardour Place; I want to see some of Con.'s new dresses. You can ride into town and call for me later.”

”Ah! very nice arrangement; then _I_ can't call with you?”

”Decidedly not, sir. Who wants a man always about? They are conveniences, not blessings.”

”Oh, well, I'm extinguished. I promise to vanish from your gaze as soon as you are within the gates of the Princess of Wardour, and now I think, after so much vocal effort, and so much self-humiliation, I will go and smoke. Adieu, sister mine; adieu mamma. Will you smoke, Burrill?”

”No, sir, thank you;” replied Burrill, with brief courtesy, and Frank, who knew beforehand what his answer would be, went toward his own room, smiling contentedly.

”I wonder what's up with Sybil?” he said to himself. ”She has waked up decidedly; but she has let herself in for a rumpus with Burrill.”

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