He felt as if another of these problems would drive him mad.
“What shall I call you now?” said Sylvia, staring at him. “I suppose I mustn’t say Walter, and Mr Wilbraham sounds so odd!”
The pathos and the pettiness of it! The little mind casting about for props, and following so faithfully where those she had guided her!
“Sylvia,” he blurted out, “I’ve been a brute—try me once more, dear. I’ll do better, I swear it.”
She shook her head, smiling sadly.
“You see, I’m not clever like Teresa; but I am quite sure no two people ought to marry unless they love each other very much. I thought you meant you did, and so I don’t suppose I asked you questions enough. Then we might have found out, of course; but I didn’t. We needn’t say any more about it, need we?”
“I’ll rid you of my company to-morrow.”
“Won’t you come to Syracuse? Oh, but you wanted to see something there, didn’t you? It seems such a pity you should not see it! If you come, I shan’t tease you, indeed. Granny will be very glad to have me to walk with her. And if once or twice I do forget and call you Walter, I hope you won’t mind much?”
“My God, Sylvia,” he cried, “you punish me!”
“Punish you! Oh!” she exclaimed in distress—“but haven’t I explained rightly? I thought we should all be just as we were before Assisi. You used to walk about with us then, don’t you know, and I don’t see why this should make any difference.” She stood up. “Shall we go back, or did you want to go on farther?”