"Gladly," he said, "and discreetly—from a distance."
There was something so comfortable and lovable about him that night that I suddenly wanted to tell him I was sorry that we had quarrelled, sorry that the barrier had arisen between us. But I couldn't. In one way, however, I might make amends. I said,
"I've grown awfully fond of Mercedes. I hope she will come North sometime—for the summer, perhaps. I think I misjudged her cruelly for a while."
The steel-blue eyes grew warm.
"She's a very nice child," said Bill, "and I knew you'd find it out before long. You didn't give her a chance at first. But I'm glad you like her, Mavis, for you can do her a lot of good."
"How?" I asked curiously.
"Well, for one thing, you're pretty well balanced—most of the time. And for another, you have had the advantage of a unique and splendid upbringing. And for another, you are—unless given certain circumstances—most uncommonly sweet."
He said it in a very matter-of-fact tone: and looked at his watch as he spoke—not at me. I was absurdly embarrassed.
"Are—are you a 'certain circumstance'?" I asked daringly, and escaped to my room before he could answer. I heard him start to follow me, but apparently he thought better of it. But long after I was in bed, I heard a foot-fall under my windows, the smell of a pipe drifted in through the flower-scent, and the sound of a baritone voice singing softly,
"Who is Sylvia—who is she—?"