"Oughtn't I to take you?" said Felicity to Sylvia.
"My dear Lady Chetwode, please remember that Woodville is staying in the same house as Miss Crofton, and it is perfectly absurd, and cruelty to the horses to drag them out of their way, when you live in Park Street, and I only a stone's-throw from you! Do be practical!" cried Wilton.
"Oh, all right."
"Won't you take Miss Sylvia home?" said Bertie.
"Oh, certainly," said Woodville, and they walked a little way towards the cab together.
Ever since Ridokanaki's departure, Woodville, having consented to keep their engagement secret until Sylvia was twenty-one, had sought, and thought he had found, a solution, which was at once balm to his conscience and support to his pride. Sylvia and he should make a compact that they should be to one another in reality as they appeared to her father, and to the world: friends only. They would neither seek nor avoid tête-a-têtes, and when alone would ignore, crush, and temporarily forget their tenderer relations. Sylvia had willingly, eagerly agreed. She knew, in fact, that these were the only terms on which he would remain there. And yet it was rather hard. She remembered (how clearly!) that during all these years he had kissed her on seven separate occasions only, and those occasions, after the first, were always, or nearly always, at her suggestion—because it was her birthday—or because it was Christmas Day—because she was unhappy—or because he was in good spirits, and similar reasons. How admirable they had seemed! How sophistically she argued!
All this, Woodville had explained, must now cease. He tried with some difficulty to point out to her that this innovation was because he loved her, not less, but more. He could not trust himself, and did not intend to try. She was so happy to think he had given up going to Athens that she was only too glad to consent to anything.
This was the first time they had been alone since the compact. She looked at him beamingly as they started on their drive.