Sylvia's face, when she emerged from the house to find her friend waiting alone, was expressive; and Edna answered quite as if she had spoken.
"Yes, I sent him away. I had to see you alone. Please forgive me for yesterday, and give me ten minutes—no, five; I believe you'll ask for the next five yourself."
It was Edna's old winning smile that again beamed upon her perplexed friend. The vague change and coolness had disappeared. "Choose a place where no one will disturb us," she added.
In silence Sylvia walked to the Æolian pine tree, and they seated themselves on the rustic seat.
"How amazed you must have been at my severity yesterday," began Edna, "when you could not have had the vaguest idea at what I was hinting."
Sylvia still kept silence. She was astonished by the light-hearted, almost humorous note in her companion's voice.
"You must have had an idea, I suppose," she returned noncommittally.
To her further surprise Edna actually laughed. "Yes, I had an idea, but I'm mortally ashamed of it to-day. Could you be so magnanimous, Sylvia, as not to ask me what it was?"
The girl kept silence for a moment. Surely if her offense had concerned John Dunham, nothing could have occurred since yesterday to alter facts—but stay! and not all the sun kisses that had warmed Sylvia's face could conceal that she grew suddenly pale. If Edna and John had come to a mutual discovery since yesterday, that would explain the happy excitement which seemed to have engulfed all other feeling for Edna.
"You will have to explain a little," she said, and her self-control made her voice cold.