“Walter. Oh, I shall be able to call him Walter then, of course,” said Sylvia, laughing again and nodding. And suddenly the laugh frightened Teresa. She laid her two hands on the girl’s shoulders and looked into her eyes.
“Don’t laugh, please, dear,” she said gravely; “but tell me what you have in your mind. Has Walter said anything to you?”
“I told him,” Sylvia answered proudly.
“What?”
“That we ought not to marry unless we both loved each other. You know, Teresa, that is quite right; and you know, too, that he isn’t fond of me any more, so, of course, we couldn’t. He thought we could. He thought perhaps it would do if I was happy; but I was sure I ought to say no. And so—” she drew a long breath—“I said it.”
“Ah, my poor dear!” cried Teresa, pulling down the pretty head upon her shoulder, and kissing her again. For the moment she had forgotten Sylvia’s first question, and it was the girl herself who reminded her.
“So now you will marry him, won’t you?”
Teresa had to keep check on herself, for she saw that Sylvia was in a state of tremulous excitement, and that she must speak very quietly, though inwardly fuming.
“What has put such a thing into your head—such an amazing thing? What could make you imagine that, under any possibility, I could marry Walter Wilbraham?”
“Because he likes you,” said Sylvia simply.