A sudden rain-squall, noisy against the casements, had darkened the room; then the electric lights broke out with a mild candle-like lustre, and Quarrier, standing beside Sylvia’s chair, discovered it to be empty.
It was not until he had dressed for dinner that he saw her again, seated on the stairs with Marion Page—a new appearance of intimacy for both women, who heretofore had found nothing except a passing civility in common.
Marion was discussing dog-breeding with that cool, crude, direct insouciance so unpleasant to some men. Sylvia was attentive, curious, and instinctively shrinking by turns, secretly dismayed at the overplainness of terms employed in kennel lore by the girl at her side.
The conversation veered toward the Sagamore pup. Marion explained that Siward was too busy to do any Southern shooting, which was why he was glad to have her polish Sagamore on Jersey woodcock.
“I thought it was not good for a dog to be used by anybody except his master,” said Sylvia carelessly.
“Only second-raters suffer. Besides, I have shot enough, now, with Mr. Siward to use his dog as he does.”
“He is an agreeable shooting companion, smiled Sylvia.
“He is perfect,” answered Marion coolly. “The only test for a thoroughbred is the field. He rings true.”
They exchanged carefully impersonal views on Siward’s good qualities for a moment or two; then Marion said bluntly: “Do you know anything in particular about that Patroons Club affair?”
“No,” said Sylvia, “nothing in particular.”
“Neither do I; and I don’t care to; I mean, that I don’t care what he did; and I wish that gossiping old Major would stop trying to hint it to me.”
“My uncle!”
“Oh! I forgot. Beg your pardon, you know, but—”
“I’m not offended,” observed Sylvia, with a shrug of her pretty, bare shoulders.
Marion laughed. “Such a gadabout! Besides, I’m no prude, but he and Leroy Mortimer have no business to talk to unmarried women the way they do. No matter how worldly wise we are, men have no right to suppose we are.”
“Pooh!” shrugged Sylvia. “I have no patience to study out double-entendre, so it never shocks me. Besides—”
She was going to add that she was not at all versed in doubtful worldly wisdom, but decided not to, as it might seem to imply disapproval of Marion’s learning. So she went on: “Besides, what have innuendoes to do with Mr. Siward?”
“I don’t know whether I care to understand them. The Major hinted that the woman—the one who figured in it—is—rather exclusively Mr. Siward’s ‘property.’”
“Exclusively?” repeated Sylvia curiously. “She’s a public actress, isn’t she?”
“If you call the manoeuvres of a newly fledged chorus girl acting, yes, she is. But I don’t believe Mr. Siward figures in that unfashionable rôle. Why, there are too many women of his own sort ready for mischief.” Marion turned to Sylvia, her eyes hard with a cynicism quite lost on the other. “That sort of thing might suit Leroy Mortimer, but it doesn’t fit Mr. Siward,” she concluded, rising as their hostess appeared from above and the butler from below.
And all through dinner an indefinitely unpleasant remembrance of the conversation lingered with Sylvia, and she sat silent for minutes at a time, returning to actualities with a long, curious side-glance across at Siward, and an uncomprehending smile of assent for whatever Quarrier or Major Belwether had been saying to her.
Cards she managed to avoid after dinner, and stood by Quarrier’s chair for half an hour, absently watching the relentless method and steady adherence to rule which characterised his Bridge-playing, the eager, unslaked brutality of Mortimer, the set, selfish face of his pretty wife, the chilled intensity of Miss Caithness.
And Grace Ferrall’s phrase recurred to her, “Nobody ever has enough money!”—not even these people, whose only worry was to find investment for the surplus they were unable to spend. Something of the meanness of it all penetrated her. Were these the real visages of these people, whose faces otherwise seemed so smooth and human? Was Leila Mortimer aware of the shrillness of her voice? Did Agatha Caithness realise how pinched her mouth and nose had grown? Did even Leroy Mortimer dream how swollen the pouches under his eyes were; how red and puffy his hands, shuffling a new pack; how pendulous and dreadful his red under-lip when absorbedly making up his cards?
Instinctively she moved a step forward for a glimpse of Quarrier’s face. The face appeared to be a study in blankness. His natural visage was emotionless and inexpressive enough, but this face, from which every vestige of colour had fled, fascinated her with its dead whiteness; and the hair brushed high, the long, black lashes, the silky beard, struck her as absolutely ghastly, as though they had been glued to a face of wax.
She turned on her heel, restless, depressed, inclined for companionship. The Page boys had tempted Rena and Eileen to the billiard-room; Voucher, Alderdene, and Major Belwether were huddled over a table, immersed in Preference; Katharyn Tassel and Grace Ferrall sat together looking over the announcements of Sylvia’s engagement in a batch of New York papers just arrived; Ferrall was writing at a desk, and Siward and Marion were occupied in the former’s sketch for an ideal shooting vehicle, to be built on the buckboard principle, with a clever arrangement for dogs, guns, ammunition, and provisions. Siward’s profile, as it bent in the lamplight over the paper, was very engaging. The boyish note predominated as he talked while he drew, his eyes now smiling, now seriously intent on the sketch which was developing so swiftly under his facile pencil.
Marion’s clean-cut blond head was close to his, her supple body twisted in her seat, one bare arm hanging over the back of the chair. Something in her attitude seemed to exclude intrusion; her voice, too, was hushed in comment, though his was pitched in his naturally agreeable key.
Sylvia had taken a hesitating step toward them, but halted, turning irresolutely; and suddenly over her crept a sensation of isolation—something of that feeling which had roused her at midnight from her bed and driven her to Grace Ferrall for a refuge from she knew not what.
The rustle of her silken dinner gown was scarcely perceptible as she turned. Siward, moving his head slightly, glanced up, then brought his sketch to a brilliant finish.
“Don’t you think something of this sort is practicable?” he asked pleasantly, including Mrs. Ferrall and Katharyn Tassel in a general appeal which brought them into the circle of two. Grace Ferrall leaned forward, looking over Marion’s shoulder, and Siward rose and stepped back, with a quick glance into the hall—in time to catch a glimmer of pale blue and lace on the stairs.
“I suppose my cigarettes are in my room as usual,” he said aloud to himself, wheeling so that he could not have time to see Marion’s offer of her little gold-encrusted case, or notice her quickly raised eyes, bright with suspicion and vexation. For she, too, had observed Sylvia’s distant entrance, had been perfectly aware of Siward’s cognizance of Sylvia’s retreat; and when Siward went on sketching she had been content. Now she could not tell whether he had deliberately and skillfully taken his congé to follow Sylvia, or whether, in his quest for his cigarettes, chance might meddle, as usual. Even if he returned, she could not know with certainty how much of a part hazard had played on the landing above, where she already heard the distant sounds of Sylvia’s voice mingling with Siward’s, then a light footfall or two, and silence.
He had greeted her in his usual careless, happy fashion, just as she had reached her chamber door; and she turned at the sound of his voice, confused, unsmiling, a little pale.
“Is it headache, or are you too in quest of cigarettes?” he asked, as he stopped in passing her where she stood, one slender hand on the knob of her door.
“I don’t smoke, you know,” she said, looking up at him with a cool little laugh. “It isn’t headache either. I was—boring myself, Mr. Siward.”
“Is there any virtue in me as a remedy?”
“Oh, I have no doubt you have lots of virtues.... Perhaps you might do as a temporary remedy—first aid to the injured.” She laughed again, uncertainly. “But you are on a quest for cigarettes.”
“And you?”
“A rendezvous—with the Sand-Man.... Good night.”
“Good night… if you must say it.”
“It’s polite to say something… isn’t it?”
“It would be polite to say, ‘With pleasure, Mr. Siward!’”
“But you haven’t invited me to do anything—not even to accept a cigarette. Besides, you didn’t expect to meet me up here?”
The trailing accent made it near enough a question for him to say, “Yes, I did.”
“How could you?”
“I saw you leave the room.”
“You were sketching for Marion Page. Do you wish me to believe that you noticed me—”
“—And followed you? Yes, I did follow you.” She looked at him, then past him toward a corner of the wide hall where a maid in cap and apron sat pretending to be sewing. “Careful!” she motioned with smiling lips, “servants gossip.... Good night, again.”
“Won’t you—”
“Oh, dear! you mustn’t speak so loud,” she motioned, with her fresh, sweet lips curving on the edge of that adorable smile once more.
“Couldn’t we have a moment—”
“No—”
“One minute—”
“Hush! I must open my door”—lingering. “I might come out again, if you have anything particularly important to communicate to me.”
“I have. There’s a big bay-window at the end of the other corridor. Will you come?”
But she opened her door, with a light laugh, saying “good night” again, and closed it noiselessly behind her.
He walked on, turning into his corridor, but kept straight ahead, passing his own door, on to the window at the end of the hall, then north along a wide passageway which terminated in a bay-window overlooking the roof of the indoor swimming tank.
Rain rattled heavily, against the panes and on the lighted roof of opalescent glass below, through which he could make out the shadowy fronds of palms.
It appeared that he had cigarettes enough, for he lighted one presently, and, leaving his chair, curled up in the cushioned and pillowed window-seat, gathering his knees together under his arm.
The cigarette he had lighted went out. He had bitten into it and twisted it so roughly that it presently crumbled; and he threw the rags of it into a metal bowl, locking his jaws in silence. For the night threatened to be a bad one for him. A heavy fragrance from his neighbour’s wine-glass at dinner had stirred up what had for a time lain dormant; and, by accident, something—some sweetmeat he had tasted—was saturated in brandy.
Now, his restlessness at the prospect of a blank night had quickened to uneasiness, with a hint of fever tinting his skin, but, as yet, the dull ache in his body was scarcely more than a premonition.
He had his own devices for tiding him over such periods—reading, tobacco, and the long, blind, dogged tramps he took in town. But here, to-night, in the rain, one stood every chance of walking off the cliffs; and he was sick of reading himself sightless over the sort of books sent wholesale to Shotover; and he was already too ill at ease, physically, to make smoking endurable.
Were it not for a half-defiant, half-sullen dread of the coming night, he might have put it from his mind in spite of the slowly increasing nervous tension and the steady dull consciousness of desire. He drew another Sirdar from his case and sat staring at the rain-smeared night, twisting the frail fragrant cigarette to bits between his fingers.
After a while he began to walk monotonously to and fro the length of the corridor, like a man timing his steps to the heavy ache of body or mind. Once he went as far as his own door, entered, and stepping to the wash-basin, let the icy water run over hands and wrists. This sometimes helped to stimulate and soothe him; it did now, for a while—long enough to change the current of his thoughts to the girl he had hoped might have the imprudence to return for a tryst, innocent enough in itself, yet unconventional and unreasonable enough to prove attractive to them both.
Probably she wouldn’t come; she had kept her fluffy skirts clear of him since Cup Day—which simply corroborated his vague estimate of her. Had she done the contrary, his estimate would have been the same; for, unconsciously but naturally, he had prejudged her. A girl who could capture Quarrier at full noontide, and in the face of all Manhattan, was a girl equipped for anything she dared—though she was probably too clever to dare too much; a girl to be interested in, to amuse and be amused by; a girl to be reckoned with. His restlessness and his fever subdued by the icy water, he stood drying his hands, thinking, coolly, how close he had come to being seriously in love with this young girl, whose attitude was always a curious temptation, whose smile was a charming provocation, whose youth and beauty were to him a perpetual challenge. He admitted to himself, calmly, that he had never seen a woman he cared as much for; that for the brief moment of his declaration he had known an utterly new emotion, which inevitably must have become the love he had so quietly declared it to be. He had never before felt as he felt then, cared as he cared then. Anything had been possible for him at that time—any degree of love, any devotion, any generous renunciation. Clear-sighted, master of himself, he saw love before him, and knew it when he saw it; recognised it, was ready for it, offered it, emboldened by her soft hands so eloquent in his.
And in his arms he held it for an instant, he thought, spite of the sudden inertia, spite of the according of cold lips and hands still colder, relaxed, inert; held it until he doubted. That was all; he had been wise to doubt such sudden miracles as that. She, consummate and charming, had soon set him right. And, after all, she liked him; and she had been sure enough of herself to permit the impulse of a moment to carry her with him—a little way, a very little way—merely to the formal symbol of a passion the germ of which she recognised in him.
Then she had become intelligent again, with a little laughter, a little malice, a becoming tint of hesitation and confusion; all the sense, all the arts, all the friendly sweetness of a woman thorough in training, schooled in self-possession, clear enough to be audacious and perverse without danger to herself, to the man, or to the main chance.
Standing there alone in his lighted room, he wondered whether, had her trained and inbred policy been less precise, less worldly, she might have responded to such a man as he. Perfectly conscious that he had been capable of loving her; aware, too, that his experience had left him on that borderland only through his cool refusal to cross it and face a hopeless battle already lost, he leisurely and mentally took the measure of his own state of mind, and found all well, all intact; found himself still master of his affections, and probably clear-minded enough to remain so under the circumstances.
To such a man as he, impulse to love, capacity to love, did not mean instant capsizing with a flop into sentimental tempests, where swamped, ardent and callow youth raises a hysterically selfish clamour for reciprocity or death. His nature partly, partly his character, accounted for this balance; and, in part, a rather wide experience with women of various degrees counted more.
So, by instinct and experience, normally temperate, only what was abnormal and inherited might work a mischief in this man. His listlessness, his easy acquiescence, were but consequent upon the self-knowledge of self-control. But mastery of the master-vice required something different; he was sick of a sickness; and because, in this sickness, will, mind, and body are tainted too, reason and logic lack clarity; and, to the signals of danger his reply had always been either overconfident or weak—and it had been always the same reply: “Not yet. There is time.” And now, this last week, it had come upon him that the time was now; the skirmish was already on; and it had alarmed him suddenly to find that the skirmish was already a battle, and a rough one.
As he stood there he heard voices on the stairs. People had already begun to retire, because late cards and point-shooting at dawn do not agree. And a point-shooting picnic in snugly elaborate blinds was popular with women—or was supposed to be.
He could distinguish by their voices, by their laughter and step, the people who were mounting the stairway and lingering for gossip or passing through the various corridors to court the sleep denied him; he heard Mortimer’s heavy tread and the soft shuffling step of Major Belwether as they left the elevator; and the patter of his hostess’s satin slippers, and her gay “good night” on the stairs.
Little by little the tumult died away. Quarrier’s measured step came, passed; Marion Page’s cool, crisp voice and walk, and the giggle and amble of the twins, and Rena and Eileen,—the last laggards, with Ferrall’s brisk, decisive tones and stride to close the procession.
He turned and looked grimly at his bed, then, shutting off the lights, he opened his door and went out into the deserted corridor, where the elevator shaft was dark and only the dim night-lights burned at angles in the passageways.
He had his rain-coat and cap with him, not being certain of what he might be driven to; but for the present he found the bay-window overlooking the swimming tank sufficient to begin the vigil.
Secure from intrusion, as there were no bedrooms on that corridor, he tossed coat and cap into the window-seat, walked to and fro for a while listening to the rain, then sat down, his well-shaped head between his hands. And in silence he faced the Enemy.
How long he had sat there he did not know. When he raised his face, all gray and drawn with the tension of conflict, his eyes were not very clear, nor did the figure standing there in the dim light from the hall mean anything for a moment.
“Mr. Siward?” in an uncertain voice, almost a whisper.
He stood up mechanically, and she saw his face.
“Are you ill? What is it?”
“Ill? No.” He passed his hand over his eyes. “I fancy I was close to the edge of sleep.” Some colour came back into his face; he stood smiling now, the significance of her presence dawning on him.
“Did you really come?” he asked. “This isn’t a very lovely but impalpable astral vision, is it?”
“It’s horridly imprudent, isn’t it?” she murmured, still considering the rather drawn and pallid face of the man before her. “I came out of pure curiosity, Mr. Siward.”
She glanced about her. He moved a big bunch of hothouse roses so she could pass, and she settled down lightly on the edge of the window-seat. When he had piled some big downy cushions behind her back, she made a quick gesture of invitation.
“I have only a moment,” she said, as he seated himself beside her. “Part of my curiosity is satisfied in finding you here; I didn’t suppose you so faithful.”
“I can be fairly faithful. What else are you curious about?”
“You said you had something important—”
“—To tell you? So I did. That was bribery, perjury, false pretences, robbery under arms, anything you will! I only wanted you to come.”
“That is a shameful confession!” she said; but her smile was gay enough, and she noiselessly shook out her fluffy skirts and settled herself a trifle more deeply among the pillows.
“Of course,” she observed absently, “you are dreadfully mortified at yourself.”
“Naturally,” he admitted.
The patter of the rain attracted her attention; she peered out through the blurred casements into the blackness. Then, picking up his cap and indicating his raincoat, “Why?” she asked.
“Oh—in case you hadn’t come—”
“A walk? By yourself? A night like this on the cliffs! You are not perfectly mad, are you?”
“Not perfectly.”
Her face grew serious and beautiful.
“What is the matter, Mr. Siward?”
“Things.”
“Do you care to be more explicit?”
“Well,” he said, with a humourous glance at her, “I haven’t seen you for ages. That’s not wholesome for me, you know.”
“But you see me now; and it does not seem to benefit you.”
“I feel much better,” he insisted, laughing; and her blue eyes grew very lovely as the smile broke from them in uncertain response.
“So you had nothing really important to tell me, Mr. Siward?”
“Only that I wanted you.”
“Oh!… I said important.”
But he did not argue the question; and she leaned forward, broke a rose from its stem, then sank back a little way among the cushions, looking at him, idly inhaling the hothouse perfume.
“Why have you so ostentatiously avoided me, Mr. Siward?” she asked languidly.
“Well, upon my word!” he said, with a touch of irritation.
“Oh, you are so dreadfully literal!” she shrugged, brushing her straight, sensitive nose with the pink blossom; “I only said it to give you a chance.... If you are going to be stupid, good night!” But she made no movement to go.... “Yes, then; I have avoided you. And it doesn’t become you to ask why.”
“Because I kissed you?”
“You hint at the true reason so chivalrously, so delicately,” she said, “that I scarcely recognise it.” The cool mockery of her voice and the warm, quick colour tinting neck and face were incongruous. He thought with slow surprise that she was not yet letter-perfect in her rôle of the material triumphant over the spiritual. A trifle ashamed, too, he sat silent, watching the silken petals fall one by one as she slowly detached them with delicate, restless lips.
“I am sorry I came,” she said reflectively. “You don’t know why I came, do you? Sheer loneliness, Mr. Siward; there is something of the child in me still, you see. I am not yet sufficiently resourceful to take it out in a quietly tearful obligato; I never learned how to produce tears.... So I came to you.” She had stripped the petals from the rose, and now, tossing the crushed branch from her, she leaned forward and broke from its stem a heavy, perfumed bud, half unfolded.
“It seems my fate to pass my life in bidding you good night,” she said, straightening up and turning to him with the careless laughter touching mouth and eyes again. Then, resting her weight on one hand, her smooth, white shoulder rounded beside her cheek, she looked at him out of humourous eyes:
“What is it that women find so attractive in you? The man’s experienced insouciance? The boy’s unconscious cynicism? The mystery of your self-sufficiency? The faulty humanity in you? The youth in you already showing traces of wear that hint of future scars? What will you be at thirty-five? At forty?… Ah,” she added softly, “what are you now? For I don’t know, and you cannot tell me if you would.... Out of these little windows called eyes we look at one another, and study surfaces, and try to peep into neighbours’ windows. But all is dark behind the windows—always dark, in there where they tell us souls hide.”
She laid the shell-pink bud against her cheek that matched it, smiling with wise sweetness to herself.
“What counts with you?” he asked after a moment.
“Counts? How?”
“In your affections. What prepossesses you?”
She laughed audaciously: “Your traits—some of them—all of them that you reveal. You must be aware of that much already, considering everything—”
“Then, what is it I lack? Where do I fail?”
“But you don’t lack—you don’t fail! I ask nothing more of you, Mr. Siward.”
“A man from whom a woman desires nothing is already convicted of insufficiency.... You would recognise this very quickly if I made love to you.”
“Is that the only way I am to discover your insufficiency, Mr. Siward?”
“Or my sufficiency.... Have you enough curiosity to try?”
“Oh! I thought you were to try.” Then, quickly: “But I think you have already experimented; and I did not notice your shortcomings. So there is no use in pursuing that line of investigation any farther—is there?”
And always with her the mischief lay in the trailing upward inflection; in the confused sweetness of her eyes, and their lovely uncertainty.
One slim white hand held the rose against her cheek; the other lay idly on her knee, fresh and delicate as a fallen petal; and he laid both hands over it and lifted it between them.
“Mr. Siward, I am afraid this is becoming a habit with you.” The gay mockery was not quite genuine; the curve of lips too sensitive for a voice so lightly cynical.
He smiled, bending there, considering her hand between his; and after a moment her muscles relaxed, and bare round arm and hand lay abandoned to him.
“Quite flawless—perfect,” he said aloud to himself.
“Do you—read hands?”
“Vaguely.” He touched the smooth palm: “Long life, clear mind, and”—he laughed—“heart supreme over reason! There is written a white lie—but a pretty one.”
“It is no lie.”
He laughed again, unconvinced.
“It is the truth,” she said, seriously insisting and bending sideways above her own hand where it lay in his. “It is a miserable confession to admit it, but I’m afraid intelligence would fight a losing battle with heart if the conflict ever came. You see, I know, having nobody to study except myself all these years.... There is the proof of it—that selfish, smooth contour, where there should be generosity. Then, look at the tendency of imagination toward mischief!” She laid her right forefinger on the palm of the left hand which he held, and traced the developments arising in the Mount of Hermes. “Is it not a horrid hand, Mr. Siward? I don’t know how much you know about palms, but—” She suddenly flushed, and attempted to close her hand, doubling the thumb over. There was a little half-hearted struggle, freeing one of his arms, which fell, settling about her slender waist; a silence, a breathless moment, and he had kissed her. Her lips were warm, this time.
She recovered herself, avoiding his eyes, and moved backward, shielding her face with pretty upflung elbows out-turned. “I told you it was becoming a habit with you!” The loud beating of her pulses marred her voice. “Must I establish a dead-line every time I commit the folly of being alone with you?”
“I’ll draw that line,” he said, taking her in his arms.
“I—I beg you will draw it quickly, Mr. Siward.”
“I do; it passes through your heart and mine!”
“Is—do you mean a declaration—again? You are compromising yourself, you know. I warn you that you are committing yourself.”
“So are you. Look at me!”
In his arms, her own arms pressed against his breast, resisting, she raised her splendid youthful eyes; and through and through her shot pulse on pulse, until every nerve seemed aquiver.
“While I’m still sane,” he said with a dry catch in his throat, “before I tell you that I love you, look at me.”
“I will, if you wish,” she said with a trembling smile, “but it is useless—”
“That is what I shall find out in time.... You must meet my eyes. That is well; that is frank and sweet—”
“And useless—truly it is.... Please don’t tell me—anything.”
“You will not listen?”
“There is no chance for you—if you mean love. I—I tell you in time, you see.... I am utterly frivolous—quite selfish and mercenary.”
“I take my chance!”
“No, I give you none! Why do you interfere! A—a girl’s policy costs her something if it be worth anything; whatever it costs it is worth it to me.... And I do not love you. In so short a time how could I?”
Then in his arms she fell a-trembling. Something blinded her eyes, and she turned her head sharply, only to encounter his lips on hers in a deep, clinging embrace that left her dazed, still resisting with the fragments of breath and voice.
“Not again—I beg—you. Let me go now. It is not best. Oh! truly, truly it is all wrong with us now.” She bent her head, blinded with tears, swaying, stunned; then, with a breathless sound, turned in his arms to meet his lips, her hands contracting in his; and, confronting, they paused, suspending the crisis, young faces close, and hearts afire.
“Sylvia, I love you.”
For an instant their lips clung; she had rendered him his kiss. Then, tremblingly, “It is useless… even though I loved you.”
“Say it!”
“I do.”
“Say it!”
“I—I cannot!… And it is no use—no use! I do not know myself—this way. My eyes—are wet. It is not like me; there is nothing of me in this girl you hold so closely, so confidently.... I do care for you—how can I help it? How could any woman help it? Is not that enough?”
“Until you are a bride, yes.”
“A bride? Stephen!—I cannot—”
“You cannot help it, Sylvia.”
“I must! I have my way to go.”
“My way lies that way.”
“No! no! I cannot do it; it is not best for me—not best for you.... I do care for you; you have taught me how to say it. But—you know what I have done—and mean to do, and must carry through. Then, how can you love a girl like that?”
“Dear, I know the woman I love.”
“Silly, she is what her life has made her—material, passionately selfish, unable to renounce the root of all evil.... Even if this—this happiness were ours always—I mean, if this madness could last our wedded life—I am not good enough, not noble enough, to forget what I might have had, and put away.... Is it not dreadful to admit it? Do you not know that self-contempt is part of the price?… I have no money. I know what you have.... I asked. And it is enough for a man who remains unmarried.... For I cannot ‘make things do’; I cannot ‘contrive’; I will not cling to the fringe of things, or play that heartbreaking rôle of the shabby expatriated on the Continent.... No person in this world ever had enough. I tell you I could find use for every flake of metal ever mined!… You see you do not know me. From my pretty face and figure you misjudge me. I am intelligent—not intellectual, though I might have been, might even be yet. I am cultivated, not learned; though I care for learning—or might, if I had time.... My rôle in life is to mount to a security too high for any question as to my dominance.... Can you take me there?”
“There are other heights, Sylvia.”
“Higher?”
“Yes, dear.”
“The spiritual; I know. I could not breathe there, if I cared to climb. …And I have told you what I am—all silk and lace and smooth-skinned selfishness.” She looked at him wistfully. “If you can change me, take me.” And she rose, facing him.