XIII
George fulfilled his resolution thoroughly. With the migratory bachelors he ran from house to house, found Sylvia or not, and so thought the effort worth while or not. The first time he saw her, indeed, he appreciated Wandel's wisdom, for she stood with Dalrymple at the edge of a high lawn that looked out over the sea. Her hair in the breeze was a little astray, her cheeks were flushed, and she bent if anything toward her companion who talked earnestly and with nervous gestures. George crushed his quick impulse to go down, to step between them, to have it out with Dalrymple then and there, even in Sylvia's presence; but they strolled back to the house almost immediately, and Sylvia lost her apparent good humour, and Dalrymple descended from satisfaction to a fidgety apprehension. Sylvia met George's hand briefly.
"You'll be here long?"
The question expressed a wish.
"Only until Monday. I wish it might be longer, for I'm glad to find you—and you, Dalrymple."
"Nobody said you were expected," Dalrymple grumbled. "Everybody said you were working like a horse."
George glanced at Sylvia, smiling blandly.
"Every horse goes to grass occasionally."
He turned back to Dalrymple.
"I daresay you know Lambert and Betty are due back the first of the week?"
Sylvia nodded carelessly, and started along the verandah. Dalrymple, reddening, prepared to heel, but George beckoned him back.
"I'd like a word with you."
Sylvia glanced around, probably surprised at the sharp, authoritative tone.
"Just a minute, Sylvia," Dalrymple apologized uneasily. "Little business. Hard to catch Morton. Must grasp opportunity, and all that."
And when they were alone he went close to George eagerly.
"No need to wait for Betty and Lambert, Morton. It's done. Dolly's got himself thrown over——"
"I don't believe you," George said.
"Why not?"
"What are you doing here?" George asked. "It was understood you should avoid her."
Dalrymple's grin was sickly.
"Way she's tearing around now I'd have exactly no place to go."
"You seemed rather too friendly," George pointed out, "for parties to a broken engagement."
George fancied there was something of anger in the other's face.
"Must say I'm not flattered by that. Guess you were right. One heart's not smashed, anyway."
George turned on his heel. Dalrymple caught him.
"What about those notes?"
"I don't trust you, Dalrymple. I'll keep my eye on you yet awhile."
"Ask Sylvia if you want," Dalrymple cried.
George smiled.
"I wonder if I could."
He went to his room, trying to believe Dalrymple. Was that romance really in the same class as the one with Blodgett? If so, why did she involve herself in restive affairs with less obvious men? As best he could he tried to find out that night when she was a little off guard because of some unquiet statements she had just made of Russian rumours.
"You don't mean those things," he said, "or else you've no idea what they mean."
Through her quick resentment she let herself be caught in a corner, as it were. Everyone was preparing to leave the house for a dance in benefit of some local charity. Momentarily they were left alone. He indicated the over-luxurious and rather tasteless room.
"You're asking for the confiscation of all this, and your own Oakmont, and every delightful setting to which you've been accustomed all your life. You're asking for rationed food; for a shakedown, maybe, in a garret. You're asking for a task in a kitchen or a field. Why not a negro's kitchen; a Chinaman's field?"
He looked at her, asking gravely:
"Do you quite understand the principles of communism as they affect women?"
He fancied a heightening of her colour.
"You of all men," she said, "ought to understand the strivings of the people."
He shook his head vehemently.
"I'm for the palace," he laughed, "and I fancy it means more to me than it could to a man who's never used his brain. Let those stay in the hovel who haven't the courage to climb out."
"And you're one of the people!" she murmured. "One of the people!"
"You don't say that," he answered, quickly, "to tell me it makes me admirable in your eyes. You say it to hurt, as you used to call me, 'groom'. It doesn't inflict the least pain."
There was no question about her flush now.
"Tell me," he urged, "why you permit your brain such inconsistencies, why you accept such a patent fad, why you need fads at all?"
"Why won't you leave me alone?" she asked, harshly.
"You're always asking that," he smiled, "and you see I never do. Why are you unlike these other women? Why did you turn to Blodgett? Why have you made a fool of Dalrymple?"
She stared at him.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying, why don't you come to me?"
He watched the angry challenge in her eyes, the deliberate stiffening of her entire body as if to a defensive attitude. He held out his hand to her.
"Sylvia! We are growing old."
Yet in her radiant presence it was preposterous to speak of age. She drew away with a sort of shudder.
"You wouldn't dare touch me again——"
He captured her glance. He felt that from his own eyes he failed to keep the unsatisfied desire of years.
"I haven't forgotten Upton, either. When will you give me what I want, Sylvia?"
Her glance eluded him. Swiftly she receded. Through the open door drifted a growing medley of voices. She hurried to the door, but he followed her, and purposefully climbed into the automobile she had entered, but they were no longer alone. Only once, when he made her dance with him in a huge, over-decorated tent, did he manage a whisper.
"No more nonsense with Dalrymple or anybody. Please stop making unhappiness."