Sylvia made the garden-seat quiver with an irritable movement.
“You will persist in thinking that jealousy solved all problems,” she cried.
“Oh, don’t let us turn aside into what isn’t very important. You can’t care whether I think you’re jealous or not.”
“I don’t care in so far as it is your opinion,” Sylvia admitted. “But I object to inaccurate thinking. If your life was spent in a confusion of all moral values as mine is, you would be anxious for a little straightforward computation for a change.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Michael admitted, “in thinking that I’m asking you to look after Lily to relieve myself of a responsibility. But it’s only because I see no chance of doing it in any other way. I mean—it’s not laziness on my part. It’s a confession of absolute failure.”
“In fact, you’re throwing yourself on my mercy,” Sylvia said.
“Yes; and also her,” he added gently.
“Am I such a moral companion—such an ennobling influence?”
“I would sooner think of her under your influence than think of her drifting. What I want you to understand is that I’m not consigning her to you for sentimental reasons. I would sooner that Lily were dragged down by you at a gallop than that she should sink slowly and lazily of her own accord. You have a strong personality. You are well-read. You are quite out of the common, and in the life you have chosen, so far as I have had experience, you are unique.”
Sylvia stared in front of her, and Michael waited anxiously for the reply.