“It is Lionel’s fault,” suddenly burst forth Sibylla.

“His fault?” returned Lucy.  “How can it be his fault?”

“What business has he to stop out?”

“But if he cannot help it?” returned Lucy.  “The other evening, don’t you remember, Mr. Verner said when he came in, that he could not help being late sometimes now?”

“You need not defend him,” said Sibylla.  “It seems to me that you are all ready to take his part against me.”

Lucy made no reply.  An assertion more unfounded could not have been spoken.  At that moment the step of Lionel was heard on the stairs.  He came in, looking jaded and tired.

“Up here this evening!” he exclaimed, laying down a paper or parchment which he had in his hand.  “Catherine says my mother and Decima are out.  Why, Sibylla, what is the matter?”

Sibylla dashed the handkerchief off her brow as he advanced to her, and rose up, speaking vehemently.  The sight of her husband appeared to have brought the climax to her temper.

“Where have you been?  Why were you not in to dinner?”

“I could not get home in time.  I have been detained.”

“It is false,” she retorted, her blue eyes flashing fire.  “Business, business! it is always your excuse now!  You stay out for no good purpose.”

The outbreak startled Lucy.  She backed a few paces, looking scared.

“Sibylla!” was all the amazed reply returned by Lionel.

“You leave me here, hour after hour, to solitude and tears, while you are out, taking your pleasure!  I have all the endurance of our position, and you the enjoyment.”

He battled for a moment with his rising feelings; battled for calmness, for forbearance, for strength to bear.  There were moments when he was tempted to answer her in her own spirit.

“Pleasure and I have not been very close friends of late, Sibylla,” he gravely said.  “None can know that better than you.  My horse fell lame, and I have been leading him these last two hours.  I have now to go to Verner’s Pride.  Something has arisen on which I must see Mr. Massingbird.”

“It is false, it is false,” reiterated Sibylla.  “You are not going to Verner’s Pride; you are not going to see Mr. Massingbird.  You know best where you are going; but it is not there.  It is the old story of Rachel Frost over again.”

The words confounded Lionel; both that they were inexplicable and spoken in passion so vehement.

“What do you say about Rachel Frost?” he asked.

“You know what I say, and what I mean.  When Deerham looked far and near for the man who did the injury to Rachel, they little thought they might have found him in Lionel Verner.  Lucy Tempest, it is true.  He——­”

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.