"Mr. William, how can you!" that woman protested; and when he would have turned upon her angrily, she leaned over and whispered in his ear a few words that seemed to cow him, for he gave a short grunt through his sister's trembling fingers and, with a shrug of his heavy shoulders, subsided into silence. To all this I was a simple spectator, but I did not soon forget a single feature of the scene. The remainder of the dinner passed quietly, William and myself eating with more or less heartiness, Lucetta tasting nothing at all. In mercy to her I declined coffee, and as soon as William gave token of being satisfied, we hurriedly rose. It was the most uncomfortable meal I ever ate in my life. VI A SOMBRE EVENING The evening, like the afternoon, was spent in the sitting-room with one of the sisters. One event alone is worth recording. I had become excessively tired of a conversation that always languished, no matter on what topic it started, and, observing an old piano in one corner--I once played very well--I sat down before it and impulsively struck a few chords from the yellow keys. Instantly Lucetta--it was Lucetta who was with me then--bounded to my side with a look of horror. "Don't do that!" she cried, laying her hand on mine to stop me. Then, seeing my look of dignified astonishment, she added with an appealing smile, "I beg pardon, but every sound goes through me to-night." "Are you not well?" I asked. "I am never very well," she returned, and we went back to the sofa and renewed our forced and pitiful attempts at conversation. Promptly at nine o'clock Miss Knollys came in. She was very pale and cast, as usual, a sad and uneasy look at her sister before she spoke to me. Immediately Lucetta rose, and, becoming very pale herself, was hurrying toward the door when her sister stopped her. "You have forgotten," she said, "to say good-night to our guest." Instantly Lucetta turned, and, with a sudden, uncontrollable impulse, seized my hand and pressed it convulsively. "Good-night," she cried. "I hope you will sleep well," and was gone before I could say a word in response. "Why does Lucetta go out of the room when you come in?" I asked, determined to know the reason for this peculiar conduct. "Have you any other guests in the house?" The reply came with unexpected vehemence. "No," she cried, "why should you think so? There is no one here but the family." And she turned away with a dignity she must have inherited from her father, for Althea Burroughs had every interesting quality but that. "You must be very tired," she remarked. "If you please we will go now to your room."