"I promise—Do you remember that in the spring Hugh Elliott came to spend a couple of months with Fred?"
Sylvia's fingers twitched, but all she said was, "Yes, Edith."
"He used to be in love with Sally; but he got all over that. He said he was in love with me. I thought he was—he certainly acted that way. Saying—fresh things, and—and always trying to touch me—and—that's the way men usually do when they begin to fall in love, isn't it, Sylvia?"
"No, darling, not usually—not—some kinds of men." And Sylvia's thoughts flew back, for one happy instant, to the man who had knelt at her feet on Christmas night. "But—I know what you mean—"
"And—I liked it. I mean, I thought the talk was fun to listen to, and that the—rest was—oh, Sylvia, do you understand—"
"Yes, dear, I understand."
"And he was awfully jolly, and gave me such a good time. I felt flattered to think he didn't treat me like a child, that he paid me more attention than the older girls."
"Yes, Edith."
"And I thought what fun it would be to marry him, instead of some slow, poky farmer, and have a beautiful house, and servants, and lovely clothes. I kept thinking, every night, he would ask me to; but he didn't. And finally, one time, just before we got home after a dance, he said—he was going away in the morning."
"Yes, Edith."