“It is a pleasant night,” said she, as if answering Rose's remark, “but to me there's always something sort of sad about moonlight nights. They make you think of times and people that's gone. I dare say it is different with you young folks. I guess I used to feel different about moonlight nights years ago. I remember when Mr. Whitman and I were first married, we used to like to set out on the front door-step and look at the moon, and make plans.”
“Don't you ever now?” asked Rose.
“Now we go to bed and to sleep,” replied Sylvia, decisively. There was a silence. “I guess it's pretty late,” said Sylvia, in a meaning tone. “What time is it, Mr. Allen?”
Horace consulted his watch. “It is not very late,” said he. It did not seem to him that Mrs. Whitman could stay.
“It can't be very late,” said Rose.
“What time is it?” asked Sylvia, relentlessly.
“About half-past ten,” replied Horace, with reluctance.
“I call that very late,” said Sylvia. “It is late for Rose, anyway.”
“I don't feel at all tired,” said Rose.
“You must be,” said Sylvia. “You can't always go by feelings.”