Meanwhile Sylvia and David, left alone by the sitting-room fire, with only the occasional dropping of a coal or the onslaught of wind against the shutters to interrupt them, could have the first real talk they had had since their arrival at Wastewater. David, stretched luxuriously in his chair, was free to study her, as she sat erect and beautiful in the pleasant mingling of gray afternoon light and warm firelight. He had always had a definite feeling of admiration, loyalty, affection for and confidence in Sylvia, and he felt it still. But for the first time, in this past week, she had seemed oddly to take her place down on the comfortable level of other human beings. She no longer seemed—as she so long had seemed—a creature unique and apart, a little more beautiful, more fortunate, more clever than the rest. Her mother and he had watched her grow up—a bright little conscientious girl with dark braids, a splendid twelve-year-old, fifteen-year-old, meeting all the problems and the increasing responsibilities of life so willingly, so conscientiously; prettier every year, more responsive and satisfactory every year.
And then presently she had been recognized as Uncle Roger’s heiress, and she was to own Wastewater one of these days, and the very substantial properties that went with Wastewater. David had initiated her, responsive and serious, into the secrets of her first allowance, her checkbook, her accounts. Did she know that she would be rich some day?
She had answered in Victoria’s grave little phrase: “I had not known I was so near the throne!” And since that time, now several years ago, David had more than once thought that the proud beautiful young creature had really felt herself, in a certain sense, a queen, had really been a queen in her own little circle. Quite without realizing it, he had always seen a little halo, a little aura, about Sylvia.
Always—until now. David had always told himself that he dare not ask Sylvia to be his wife, although she was the woman he knew best and admired most in the world. It was an old habit of his to think of her as the person he would have wished to marry had it been possible to unite her youth and beauty and wealth to the small income, the uncertain profession, and the ten years’ seniority of a man who was to her a sort of older brother.
But he knew to-day that he could ask her. She had oddly seemed to come into his zone during this holiday week; it was not that she was less beautiful, less rich, less admirable. But she was—different, or he was. She was just an extremely charming and fortunate girl of twenty, who might love him as well as, perhaps better than, any other man. She was splendidly high-principled and intelligent, but even these qualities, at self-confident twenty, were not the surest guides in the world. Oddly and unexpectedly enough, he had once or twice experienced, just lately, a queer little pang of something like pity for Sylvia. She impressed him as someone who had little to learn, but much to experience.
Gay, on the other hand, was engagingly diffident and teachable. She had a well-balanced little head, she had excellent judgment, she played the piano nicely, spoke French perfectly, the Montallen girls had said, and danced even better than she knew. But one felt that there were no falls ahead of Gay, no humiliating descents from any heights, simply because she had never scaled any heights. David was not analytical enough to know that it was the sisterly little Gay who had quite innocently and unconsciously shifted his attitude toward Sylvia. Gay had told him of a delightful book that Sylvia called “pretty thin.” Gay had said fervently, “Oh, thank you, David, you’ve saved me!” when he had done her a small service yesterday. Gay had quoted him, followed him with her eyes, consulted him, paid him a score of compliments in her charming little-girl way; and Gay was an exceptionally lovely young woman. Whatever her antecedents, she was delightful, eager, receptive, unaffected, and like a nice child, with her willing flying feet, her big eyes, her softly tumbled tawny hair, and her husky, protestant, velvety little voice.
To-day, while he was idly thinking of what life would be when Sylvia had taken possession of her inheritance, and had had her year or two of independence, and then had agreed to be his wife, Sylvia suddenly spoke of Gay.
“Have you any idea what she wants to do with herself, David?”
“Gay?”
Sylvia nodded.