"I can't do without you, you obstinate little thing," she would exclaim. "I don't know why I take so much trouble about you; for I don't believe you like me at all, but just tolerate me for the sake of old times. There are twenty girls in Yerbury who would go wild with delight if I were to ask them."
"Why do you not, then?" inquired Sylvie with a tantalizing light in her eyes.
"Because I don't choose to, Miss Impertinence! Don't be cross now, and torment me to death with your perverse ways."
"You surely need not be tormented."
"Sylvie, you are exasperating."
"Why do you ask me, then, or tease me to do any of these things? I would rather stay at home to-day, and paint."
"But I shall not give you up. I'll stay here, and talk so that your wits will wander!"
And so at last Sylvie would consent to her friend's demands.
One evening she came over to discuss a costume for a fancy-dress garden-party. Mrs. Eastman had brought some fashion-plates up from New York, but they did not altogether suit her fancy: so the carriage was ordered, and in a few moments it rolled to Sylvie's door.
Sylvie and Jack were at the piano. There was a soft, drizzling, summer-night rain, that made all the air fragrant without any noisy patter. It was just the evening for an old Latin hymn; and Sylvie was playing the strong, rich chords that had in them mysterious hints of heavenly joy, coming up through waves of passionate suffering. Jack's voice seemed toned to these sympathetic vibrations, and the grand old words rolled out simply, with none of the vicious taste of the more modern fashionable school. So engrossed were they, that they did not hear the carriage stop; but Sylvie caught her aunt's voice.