Their young hostess stood there, rigid, her hand leaning on the back of a chair. John could not meet the speaker's eyes.
"I have a new story upstairs," he said abruptly. "I'm going to get it and see if I can't induce one of you to read aloud."
He disappeared, and Sylvia regarded the empty bottle with reminiscent eyes.
"What did you expect to do with that stuff, Sylvia?" asked Edna.
"Something that will make a transformation in my life," replied the other slowly. "I want to tell you about it when we have more time. I know you have to go back now to your workmen,—but I'm very hopeful, Edna, and, unless I deceive myself greatly, I shall be happy; and you've been so wonderfully generous to a stranger, you'll be happy for me, I'm sure."
"We haven't time to talk now, as you say," returned Edna, with a measured coldness that caused her friend to look up, the light vanishing from her face. "Your actions have amazed me beyond words. Would you be willing that Thinkright should know the dreams and plans you have indulged in in this place?"
Sylvia stood dumb, transfixed, convicted of guilt.
"It does not come gracefully from your hostess to lecture you, I know; but against my will I have learned what I know, and—the disappointment has been bitter, Sylvia. Don't be vexed with me for speaking plainly. I can help you, I believe, when we get an opportunity for a quiet talk. Yes, I'm coming, Jenny," for the girl was at the door, bringing a question from the carpenter. "Excuse me, Sylvia. We'll talk later."
Dunham, upon reaching his room, forgot all about the book he had come to seek. Standing still in the middle of the floor, he alternately went into paroxysms of laughter and scowled gravely at the wall.
"Nonsense!" he ruminated. "Edna and I are both idiots. I could see that Edna was back in that kitchen while we stood there. This is the twentieth century, and Sylvia has never lived out of the world."