He gave a little sigh of utter content.
“Oh, my dear, how I love you for suggesting such a sweet impossibility,” he said. “But how you would despise me if I consented.”
She did not answer.
“Wouldn’t you?” he repeated.
She gave a sorrowful semblance of a laugh.
“I suppose I should,” she said.
“And I know you would. You would contrast me in your mind, whether you wished to or not, with Hermann, with poor Francis, sorely to my disadvantage.”
They sat silent a little, but there was another question Sylvia had to ask for which she had to collect her courage. At last it came.
“Have they told you yet when you are going?” she said.
“Not for certain. But—it will be before many days are passed. And the question arises—will you marry me before I go?”