Every one was moving from chair to chair, and when the bustle was over Sylvia was seated at some distance from him, and he left standing outside the circle, as if he were not playing.

In fact, Sylvia had unconsciously taken his place as actor in the game while he remained spectator, and, as it turned out, an auditor of a conversation not intended for his ears.
He was wedged against the wall, close to the great eight-day clock, with its round moon-like smiling face forming a ludicrous contrast to his long, sallow, grave countenance, which was pretty much at the same level above the sanded floor.

Before him sat Molly Brunton and one of her sisters, their heads close together in too deep talk to attend to the progress of the game.

Philip's attention was caught by the words-- 'I'll lay any wager he kissed her when he ran off into t' parlour.' 'She's so coy she'd niver let him,' replied Bessy Corney.
'She couldn't help hersel'; and for all she looks so demure and prim now' (and then both heads were turned in the direction of Sylvia), 'I'm as sure as I'm born that Charley is not t' chap to lose his forfeit; and yet yo' see he says nought more about it, and she's left off being 'feared of him.' There was something in Sylvia's look, ay, and in Charley Kinraid's, too, that shot conviction into Philip's mind.

He watched them incessantly during the interval before supper; they were intimate, and yet shy with each other, in a manner that enraged while it bewildered Philip.