table, drawing off his gloves slowly—lingering, waiting, it seemed to me. He called me neither by sign nor word; yet his eye said:—
"Lucy, come here." And I went.
Over his face a smile flowed, while he looked down on me: no temper, save his own, would have expressed by a smile the sort of agitation which now fevered him.
"Mr. de Bassompierre is there—is he not?" he inquired, pointing to the library.
"Yes."
"He noticed me at dinner? He understood me?"
"Yes, Graham."
"I am brought up for judgment, then, and so is she?"
"Mr. Home" (we now and always continued to term him Mr. Home at times) "is talking to his daughter."
"Ha! These are sharp moments, Lucy!"
He was quite stirred up; his young hand trembled; a vital (I was going to write mortal, but such words ill apply to one all living like him)—a vital suspense now held, now hurried, his breath: in all this trouble his smile never faded.
"Is he very angry, Lucy?"
