"You are too impulsive, Sylvia," she said, stung out of her silence. "Why should Sir Anthony be uncivil or unkind? I know he meant to return to-night."
"So I heard him say," said Sylvia, cynically; "but I never mind those boys, Pam; they've no ballast."
"Oh, Sylvia! I'm sure Sir Anthony has plenty of ballast. There must be some explanation, and when we have heard it you'll be ashamed of your rash judgment."
"Not I, for if it isn't true of him, it's true of most youths of his age. Do you think his mother's at the bottom of it, Pam?"
"How should I know, Sylvia? What makes you think of her?"
"Well, from something he let fall one day, I guessed that she didn't want him to come here. Then he showed me her photograph in his album. She looked chock-full of pride and insolence. I believe a woman who looked like that would do anything."
"I should think Sir Anthony would know his own mind in the matter."
"I daresay, but she may have been up to some mischief. And talking of mothers makes me think of Glengall."
"Why should it, Sylvia?"
"Well, there was that old mother of his. Think of his hard years, poor dear! No prosperity would wipe out the traces. He is as anxious-looking as Pat, and Pat is the very image of Micky Morrissy, who is always six months in arrear with his rent, and expects a notice of eviction any day. I say, Pam"—suddenly—"would you marry Glengall?"