"For instance?"
"Oh, how to cook and sweep and sew—and how to be well and happy and at peace," she added in a lower voice. Then, speaking lightly again, "We'll try to keep up that French you've worked so hard at, together—I'm dreadfully out of practice, myself—and read some of Browning's Italian poems, if you would care to. Goodnight, and again, Merry Christmas."
He left her, almost in a daze of excitement and happiness; and mounted the stairs, turning over everything that had been said and done during the two hours since he entered her room. As he reached the top, a sudden suspicion shot through him. He stopped short, almost breathlessly, then stood for several moments as if uncertain what to do, the suspicion gaining ground with every second; then suddenly, unable to bear the suspense it had created, ran down the stairs again. Sylvia's door was closed; he knocked.
"All right, just a minute," came the ready answer. A minute later the door was thrown open, and Sylvia stood in it, wrapped in a white satin dressing-gown edged with soft fur, her dark hair falling over her shoulders, her neck and arms bare. She drew back, the quick red color flooding her cheeks.
"Austin!" she exclaimed; "I never thought of your coming back—I supposed, of course, it was one of the girls. I can't—you mustn't—" But Sylvia was too much mistress of herself and woman of the world to remain embarrassed long in any situation. She recovered herself before Austin did.
"What has happened?" she asked quickly; "is any one ill?"
"No—Sylvia—what were those papers you gave me to burn?"
"Waste—rubbish. Go to bed, Austin, and don't frighten me out of my wits again by coming and asking me silly questions."
"What kind of waste paper? Please be a little more explicit."
"How did you happen to come back to ask me such a thing—what made you think of it?"