She glanced again at her own reflection in the mirror with a deep sense of disparagement and shame. It was simply dreadful, she declared to herself, to be fond of both men! She was troubled by the most contradictory cross-currents of feeling,—Jack, she knew, was devoted to her, and he was charming,—young, good-looking and in every way one of the best of brave fellows; on the other hand, the Philosopher, Walter Craig, shining light of a select and learned circle, and distinguished for many brilliant intellectual attainments, was elderly, cranky and uncertain of temper as well as uncouth and rude of behaviour,—yet he also was devoted to her and had proved his devotion by a perfect unselfishness. She worried her little inconsistent sentimental self over what seemed to her a tangle of perplexing possibilities and uncertainties, out of which came the clear and sharp reproach to her own conscience of having mistaken the character of a man who was much above the average of men, as men go—while Jack—was he above the average? Oh, she could not, she would not think any more about it!
“I shall marry Jack,” she said, resolutely. “I must marry him, because he wants to marry me. He has made up his mind for it. Mr. Craig is too old to marry,—he would be miserable with a wife! He wouldn’t get on with her at all—certainly not with one like me! I’m such a little fool!”
“Yes, Sylvia!—perhaps you are!” agreed her subconscious self. But, after all, she was no more of a little fool than thousands of other girls as good and sweet and well-meaning as she, who take their impulses for deep emotions and their sentiment for real life!
She made herself very charming that evening at dinner,—bewilderingly so to Jack, who in his lover-like pride and ecstasy could hardly take his eyes away from her. The Philosopher, on the contrary, appeared to be very hungry,—he studied his plate with critical attention, and manifested a well-nigh greedy satisfaction with his food. When Dr. Maynard ordered a bottle of extra choice champagne to be opened in honour of Jack’s return, the Philosopher smiled knowingly.
“You keep this for special occasions, eh, Maynard?” he said. “Hope you’ve got some for the wedding day!”
Sylvia uttered a little exclamation.
“Oh, don’t talk about that!” she said, pleadingly. “No—please don’t! Not yet!”
“Not yet indeed!” said old Mr. Durham, drawing his fuzzy brows together in an attempted frown. “I should think not! Why, where’s the money coming from?”
“Money?” echoed Sylvia, wonderingly.
“Ah! Money! Money to marry on—money to keep house with! Don’t you ever think of that, little woman?”