A quarrel ensued.  Stay—­that is a wrong word.  It was not a quarrel, for Lady Verner had all the talking, and Lionel would not respond angrily; he kept his lips pressed together lest he should.  Never had Lady Verner been moved to make a like scene.  She reproached, she sobbed, she entreated.  And, in the midst of it, in walked Decima and Lucy Tempest.

Lady Verner for once forgot herself.  She forgot that Lucy was a stranger; she forgot the request of Lionel for silence; and, upon Decima’s asking what was amiss, she told all—­that Lionel loved Sibylla West, and meant to marry her.

Decima was too shocked to speak.  Lucy turned and looked at Lionel, a pleasant smile shining in her eyes.  “She is very pretty; very, very pretty; I never saw any one prettier.”

“Thank you, Lucy,” he cordially said; and it was the first time he had called her Lucy.

Decima went up to her brother.  “Lionel, must it be?  I do not like her.”

“Decima, I fear that you and my mother are both prejudiced,” he somewhat haughtily answered.  And there he stopped.  In turning his eyes towards his mother as he spoke of her, he saw that she had fainted away.

Jan was sent for, in all haste.  Dr. West was Lady Verner’s medical adviser; but a feeling in Decima’s heart at the moment prevented her summoning him.  Jan arrived, on the run; the servant had told him she was not sure but her lady was dying.

Lady Verner had revived then; was better; and was re-entering upon the grievance which had so affected her.  “What could it have been?” wondered Jan, who knew his mother was not subject to fainting fits.

“Ask your brother, there, what it was,” resentfully spoke Lady Verner.  “He told me he was going to marry Sibylla West.”

“Law!” uttered Jan.

Lionel stood; haughty, impassive; his lips curling, his figure drawn to its full height.  He would not reproach his mother by so much as a word, but the course she was taking, in thus proclaiming his affairs to the world, hurt him in no measured degree.

“I don’t like her,” said Jan.  “Deborah and Amilly are not much, but I’d rather have the two, than Sibylla.”

“Jan,” said Lionel, suppressing his temper, “your opinion was not asked.”

Jan sat down on the arm of the sofa, his great legs dangling.  “Sibylla can’t marry two,” said he.

“Will you be quiet, Jan?” said Lionel.  “You have no right to interfere.  You shall not interfere.”

“Gracious, Lionel, I don’t want to interfere,” returned Jan simply.  “Sibylla’s going to marry Fred Massingbird.”

“Will you be quiet?” reiterated Lionel, his brow flushing scarlet.

“I’ll be quiet,” said Jan, with composure.  “You can go and ask her for yourself.  It has all been settled this afternoon; not ten minutes ago.  Fred’s going out to Australia, and Sibylla’s going with him, and Deborah and Amilly are crying their eyes out, at the thought of parting with her.”