“It’s just as if he were,” announced the girl calmly.
“Oh,” cried Teresa rashly, “but it isn’t! You know people who are engaged don’t always marry. They find out that they have different tastes, or that they don’t care enough, or—”
She stopped suddenly, wondering what force had laid bare her own fears.
Sylvia smiled pityingly.
“People are silly,” she said.
“And,” said the marchesa, almost breathlessly—“and you are never afraid?”
“Of course not. Why should I be?”
“Why should you be,” repeated Teresa, kissing her after a momentary pause, “when he loves you?”
“Of course he loves me. He told me so,” said Sylvia conclusively.
“What has come to me that I shouldn’t be content to let well alone?” her sister asked herself. “It would be another matter if I had seen anything to make me uneasy. But I haven’t. No, I haven’t,” she repeated determinedly. Then her eager face brightened again. “Sylvia,” she said, “I’ll try to call him Walter. If I choke, you won’t mind?”