No, he's down at the stables or else he's sneaked in through the kitchen; the way he did that other time when he made a grandstand exit after I'd ventured to lecture him on his general rottenness.

Remember how worried about him you were, that time; till we found him sitting in the kitchen and pestering the maids?
He--" "But that time, he was only sulky," said the Mistress.

"Not insanely angry, as he is now.

I do hope--" "Stop worrying!" adjured the Master.

"He's all right." Which proved, for perhaps the trillionth time in history, that a woman's intuitions are better worth following than a man's saner logic.
For Cyril was not all right.