§ 12
For the next dance Sylvia’s partner was a youth whom she could not identify. He had evidently been reading the poets, for his declarations of devotion were lacking in naught but rhyme. Sylvia accepted him politely, hardly hearing his words—so busy was she with the thought of van Tuiver. Had it been accident, or a trick? She would soon know.
There came another dance—and again a tall domino. Sylvia suspected, but was not sure, until they were in their seats, when the domino sat stiff and straight, and she was certain. “Is that you?” she asked; and the answer came, “It is.”
“It is evident that some one is amusing himself at our expense,” said Sylvia, coldly. “I really think we shall have to stop it.”
“Miss Castleman,” broke in the other. “I hope you will believe me that I have had absolutely nothing to do with this.”
She answered, consolingly, “I assure you, Mr. van Tuiver, your unpreparedness has been quite evident.”
There was a pause, while he considered that. “What shall we do?” he asked.
“I think that you had best see Mr. Bates, and make clear to him that we have had enough.”
He hesitated. “Is—is that really necessary?”
“What else can we do—spend the evening together?”
“I really wish we could, Miss Castleman!”
“What—and you making love as you have been?”
“I can do better now. I really am quite charmed with the game. I’d like to make love to you—for a long time.”
“Most flattering, Mr. van Tuiver—but how about me? We’ve conversed a lot already, and you haven’t said one interesting thing.”
“Miss Castleman!”
“Not one—excepting one or two that have been insolent.”
There was a pause. “Really,” he pleaded, “that is a hard thing to say!”
“Do you mean,” she inquired, coldly, “that you have not realized the meaning of what you said to me when we met on the street?”
“I don’t know just what you refer to,” he replied, “but you must admit that you had me at a great disadvantage that evening.”
“What disadvantage, Mr. van Tuiver? The fact that I did not know who you were?”
She could feel him wince. She was prepared for a retort—but not so severe as the one which came. “The disadvantage,” he said, “that you pretended not to know who I was.”
“Why,” she exclaimed, “what do you mean?”
He answered. “If we are going to fight, it ought to be upon a fair field. You pretended that evening that you had never heard my name. But I learned since that only a day or two before you had had a quite elaborate conversation about me.”
Sylvia’s first impulse was to inquire sarcastically what right he had to assume that his illustrious name would stay in her memory. But she realized that that was a poor retort; and then her sense of fair play came in. After all, he was right—the joke was on her, and she rather admired his nerve.
So she began to laugh. “Mr. van Tuiver,” she said, “you have annoyed me so that I won’t even take the trouble to think up new lies to tell you. Realize, if you can, the impression you managed to make upon a young girl—you and your reputation together—that she should be moved to use such weapons against you!”
He forgot his anger at this. “That’s just it, Miss Castleman! I don’t understand it at all! What have I done that you should take such an attitude towards me?”
Sylvia pondered. “I fear,” she said, “that you would not thank me for telling you.”
“You are mistaken!” he exclaimed. “I really would like to know.”
“I could not bring myself to do it.”
“But why not?”
“I know it could not do any good.”
“But how can you say that—when I assure you I am in earnest? I have a very sincere admiration for you—truly. You are one of the most—one of the most amazing young women I ever met. I don’t say that in a bad sense, you understand——”
“I understand,” said Sylvia, smiling. “I have tried my best to be amazing.”
“It is evident that you dislike me intensely,” he went on. “I ask you to tell me why. What have I done?”
“It isn’t so much what you have done—it is what you are.”
“And what am I, Miss Castleman?”
“I don’t know just how to put it into words. You are some sort of monstrosity; something that when I see it, fills me with a blind rage, so that I want to fly at its throat. And then I realize that even in attacking it I am putting myself upon a level with it—and so I want to turn and flee for my life—or rather for my self-respect. I want to flee from it, Mr. van Tuiver, and never see it, never hear its voice, never even know of its existence! Do you see?”
“I see,” said the man, in a voice so faint as to be hardly audible; and then suddenly came the sound of the bell, and Sylvia sprang up.
“I flee!” she said.