“What?”
“If I am right. I want to do what’s right, but it’s so funny, it doesn’t seem to be quite easy. I thought one always knew.”
She sighed—an odd disjointed little sigh, and any sigh was so unlike Sylvia, that Wilbraham cursed himself again. But what a question she was putting.
“How can I help you? Ask your own heart.”
Always literal, she tried to obey him, but in a few minutes turned a puzzled face.
“I don’t think I know how to do it. My heart doesn’t say anything different—at least, I don’t say anything, if that’s the same thing? It is, isn’t it? It’s you that must tell me.”
“I’ll make you happy. I swear I will!”
And he meant it.
“Yes,” said the girl, speaking more slowly than was usual with her. “Oh, I should be happy, of course.”
“Well, then?”