"Well," he said, "would you object to—confidential friend?"
Sylvia's smile seemed to taunt him.
"Certainly; it goes too far. One doesn't become a confidential friend in a very limited time."
"I've known it happen in a few days."
"Friendships of that kind don't last. In a little while you find you have been deceived. But we won't talk of these things. You can't have the book, and I'm going out."
He held up the shawl, which she draped about her shoulders, and they strolled on to the terrace. The night was calm and pleasantly cool; beyond the black line of hedge across the lawn, meadows and harvest fields, with rows of sheaves that cast dark shadows behind them, stretched away in the moonlight. After a while Sylvia stopped and leaned upon the broad-topped wall.
"It's really pretty," she remarked.
"Yes," returned Bland; "it's more than pretty. There's something in it that rests one. I sometimes wish I could live in such a place as this altogether."
Sylvia was astonished, because she saw he meant it.
"After your life, you would get horribly tired of it in three months."