world that would let her do the things she imagined.
Impatient with her own restraint, Sibyl spoke. “Do tell me the reason for your call, Ben, pleasant though it is to see your cupboard. Something happened with Harley?”
He widened his eyes and leaned back, surprised at her pointed inquiry. His expression betrayed a man who had assumed he must conduct a further twenty minutes of discourse on the changing seasons, or on upcoming charity amusements to benefit displaced Belgian orphans, or starving Russian widows, or conscripted Italian peasants that they both might attend. Sibyl found that she enjoyed seeing him surprised.
“Well,” he said, one hand reaching for a nub of cigarette in the ashtray, “I’m afraid you’re right.”
“He’s come home from school. I suppose you know that,” she ventured.
“I didn’t, not officially. But I bumped into him coming out of the club rather late last night. Not usual to see undergraduates away from campus this time of year.” Benton watched her.
Sibyl sighed. “Of course. We rather thought he’d gone there. He skipped out on supper. And we hadn’t even known to expect him yesterday.”
Benton smiled. “I imagine that didn’t sit well with Captain Allston.”
A groan of exasperation slipped between Sibyl’s lips before she was able to stop herself. “You have no idea. Papa was in a terrible state all evening. His nerves, you know. A worser attack of rheumatism than I’ve ever seen. We had to use nearly double his usual amount of tonic.”
“Hmmm,” Benton said, brows furrowed. He didn’t comment further.
“We telephoned,” Sibyl continued. “But Harley wouldn’t take it. And he’s yet to be home today. It’s not like him, to stay out all night. Why, when you called I feared there’d been an accident.”
“Nnnooo.” He drew the word out, rubbing his brow with one hand. “Nothing like that. But he did his best to avoid speaking with me; he would’ve cut me dead if I hadn’t waylaid him. Even so he was most anxious to get away. And then when I arrived I found . . .” Benton paused, uncomfortable.
Sibyl leaned forward in her chair.
“Well, I’m afraid he owes some clubmen rather a lot of money,” he finished.
Sibyl sat back in her chair, confused. “But that’s impossible,” she said.
He watched her.
“No, there must be some mistake,” Sibyl insisted, getting to her feet, agitated. Benton rose when she pushed back her chair and stood with his arms crossed as she paced in the narrow room.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
“Why, because Harley’s got an allowance,” Sibyl said, blanching at the mention of money. “Ample for his needs. The income from his trust. Surely if he lost at cards he’d merely pay his debts.”
“Surely,” Benton agreed, his eyes tracking her movements across the room.
Sibyl stopped pacing and faced the professor. His gaze was neutral: decidedly so. She frowned, disliking her inability to read what he might be thinking.
“Well, of course he would!” she insisted, too loudly.
His expression stayed the same.
“I—” she started to say. “He—” She realized that she was sputtering. Sibyl felt her control slipping and knew that she must leave to avoid making a scene. She realized with surprise that she was angry—but at whom? At Benton? At her brother? She gathered her pocketbook and hat and stalked to the door.
“Sibyl—” Benton started, reaching out with one hand to stop her.
“Thank you, Benton,” she said, her voice newly chill with formality. “You are so kind to have brought this to my attention.”
“Wait,” he said, frustrated. He moved from behind his desk to meet her halfway out the door.
“It won’t be necessary to see me out,” Sibyl said. Her head buzzed with rage at her brother for putting her in this situation. For making her solve his problems, and for making her seem vulnerable in front of Benton. This layer of formality protected her from how she was
Impatient with her own restraint, Sibyl spoke. “Do tell me the reason for your call, Ben, pleasant though it is to see your cupboard. Something happened with Harley?”
He widened his eyes and leaned back, surprised at her pointed inquiry. His expression betrayed a man who had assumed he must conduct a further twenty minutes of discourse on the changing seasons, or on upcoming charity amusements to benefit displaced Belgian orphans, or starving Russian widows, or conscripted Italian peasants that they both might attend. Sibyl found that she enjoyed seeing him surprised.
“Well,” he said, one hand reaching for a nub of cigarette in the ashtray, “I’m afraid you’re right.”
“He’s come home from school. I suppose you know that,” she ventured.
“I didn’t, not officially. But I bumped into him coming out of the club rather late last night. Not usual to see undergraduates away from campus this time of year.” Benton watched her.
Sibyl sighed. “Of course. We rather thought he’d gone there. He skipped out on supper. And we hadn’t even known to expect him yesterday.”
Benton smiled. “I imagine that didn’t sit well with Captain Allston.”
A groan of exasperation slipped between Sibyl’s lips before she was able to stop herself. “You have no idea. Papa was in a terrible state all evening. His nerves, you know. A worser attack of rheumatism than I’ve ever seen. We had to use nearly double his usual amount of tonic.”
“Hmmm,” Benton said, brows furrowed. He didn’t comment further.
“We telephoned,” Sibyl continued. “But Harley wouldn’t take it. And he’s yet to be home today. It’s not like him, to stay out all night. Why, when you called I feared there’d been an accident.”
“Nnnooo.” He drew the word out, rubbing his brow with one hand. “Nothing like that. But he did his best to avoid speaking with me; he would’ve cut me dead if I hadn’t waylaid him. Even so he was most anxious to get away. And then when I arrived I found . . .” Benton paused, uncomfortable.
Sibyl leaned forward in her chair.
“Well, I’m afraid he owes some clubmen rather a lot of money,” he finished.
Sibyl sat back in her chair, confused. “But that’s impossible,” she said.
He watched her.
“No, there must be some mistake,” Sibyl insisted, getting to her feet, agitated. Benton rose when she pushed back her chair and stood with his arms crossed as she paced in the narrow room.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
“Why, because Harley’s got an allowance,” Sibyl said, blanching at the mention of money. “Ample for his needs. The income from his trust. Surely if he lost at cards he’d merely pay his debts.”
“Surely,” Benton agreed, his eyes tracking her movements across the room.
Sibyl stopped pacing and faced the professor. His gaze was neutral: decidedly so. She frowned, disliking her inability to read what he might be thinking.
“Well, of course he would!” she insisted, too loudly.
His expression stayed the same.
“I—” she started to say. “He—” She realized that she was sputtering. Sibyl felt her control slipping and knew that she must leave to avoid making a scene. She realized with surprise that she was angry—but at whom? At Benton? At her brother? She gathered her pocketbook and hat and stalked to the door.
“Sibyl—” Benton started, reaching out with one hand to stop her.
“Thank you, Benton,” she said, her voice newly chill with formality. “You are so kind to have brought this to my attention.”
“Wait,” he said, frustrated. He moved from behind his desk to meet her halfway out the door.
“It won’t be necessary to see me out,” Sibyl said. Her head buzzed with rage at her brother for putting her in this situation. For making her solve his problems, and for making her seem vulnerable in front of Benton. This layer of formality protected her from how she was
Similar Books
