"You'll have to write your sweet nothings, instead of saying them," Sylvia replied.
"For you to leave around for other girls to see," answered Ayrault with a smile.
"I don't know what your other girls do," she returned, "but with me you are safe."
Ayrault fairly made his phaeton spin, going up the grades like a shot and down like a bird. On reaching New York, he left Sylvia at her house, then ran his machine to a florist's, where he ordered some lilies and roses, and then steered his way to his club, where he dressed for dinner. Shortly before the time he repaired to Delmonico's--which name had become historical, though the founders themselves were long dead--and sat guard at a table till Sylvia, wearing his flowers and looking more beautiful than any of them, arrived with her mother and father, and Bearwarden, whom they knew very well.
"How are the exams getting on, Miss Preston?" Bearwarden asked.
"Pretty well," she replied, with a smile. "We had English literature yesterday, and natural history the day before. Next week we have chemistry and philosophy."
"What are you taking in natural history?" asked Bearwarden, with interest.
"Oh, principally physical geography, geology, and meteorology," she replied. "I think them entrancing."
"It must be a consolation," said Ayrault, "when your best hat is spoiled by rain, to know the reason why. Your average," he continued, addressing Sylvia, "was ninety in the semi-annuals, and I haven't a doubt that the finals will maintain your record for the year."
"Don't be too sure," she replied. "I have been loafing awfully, and had to engage a 'grind' as a coach."