Then he helped himself to the last remaining morsel.
It was such a trifling thing really, and due of course to her host's
singular absent-mindedness; yet, even so, taken in connection with both
the Wachners' silence and odd manner, this lack of the commonest courtesy
struck Sylvia with a kind of fear--with fear and with pain. She felt so
hurt that the tears came into her eyes.
There was a long moment's pause--then,
"Do you not feel well," asked Madame Wachner harshly, "or are you
grieving for the Comte de Virieu?"
Her voice had become guttural, full of coarse and cruel malice, and even
as she spoke she went on eating voraciously.
Sylvia Bailey pushed her chair back, and rose to her feet.
"I should like to go home now," she said quietly, "for it is getting
late,"--her voice shook a little. She was desperately afraid of
disgracing herself by a childish outburst of tears. "I can make my
way back quite well without Monsieur Wachner's escort."
She saw her host shrug his shoulders. He made a grimace at his wife; it
expressed annoyance, nay, more, extreme disapproval.
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