"Well, then, supposing you let me in on the rose-colored cloud proposition, too."
Sylvia's reply was a question. "Did you really come up here on purpose to see me?" she asked.
"I did, indeed. Ought to be back in the office this minute. Dunham—you know Dunham by the way—will have troubles of his own before I can get back."
"How is Mr. Dunham?" asked Sylvia, again splashing the water gently with an oar.
"As well as could be expected of such a fragile flower. He's straining at the leash now to get to Boston to call on Miss Derwent. I expect my arrival at the office will be the signal for a cloud of dust in which he will disappear, heading for the first train. A very fine girl, too. I 'm glad you met her. If I ever admired girls—except when I'm walking on rosy clouds—I should admire her."
"I knew you did!" exclaimed Sylvia, with a little pinch at the heart.
"You knew it, why?" asked the lawyer blankly.
"I don't know. I felt it."
Judge Trent bit his lip in a certain grim amusement. His niece, then, sometimes did him the honor to think about him still, even though she had ceased to kiss his picture.
"I'm a very jealous person," declared Sylvia frankly, looking up at him, "and vain and selfish and lazy. It's as well for you to know it."