"Would you mind telling me just why you laughed?"
"Oh! That would be telling a lot of things."
Any one seeing them might have thought that this middle-aged gentleman was taking advantage of an opportunity to bask in the smile of a pretty girl for the sheer pleasure of her company. He was purposely detaining her, but whether from a wish to amuse himself or to mark his indifference to what went on around him she did not fathom. The fact was that Sylvia had wondered herself a good deal about that interview in Mrs. Owen's house, and she was not quite sure why she had laughed.
"I'd really like to know, Miss Garrison. If I knew why you laughed at me—"
"Oh, I didn't laugh at you! At least—it wasn't just you alone I was laughing at!"
"Not at me?"
His look of indifference vanished wholly; he seemed sincerely interested as he waited for her reply, delayed a moment by the passing of a group of youngsters from the ballroom to the fresher air of the hall.
"I know perfectly well this isn't a good place to be serious in; but I laughed—Do you really want to know?"
"Yes, please. Don't try to spare my feelings; they're pretty badly shot up anyhow."
"It must have been because it struck me as funny that a man like you—with all your influence and power—your capacity for doing big things—should go to so much trouble merely to show another man your contempt for him. Just a moment"—she deliberated an instant, lifting her head a trifle,—"it was funny, just as it would be funny if the United States went to war to crush a petty, ignorant pauper power; or it would be like using the biggest pile driver to smash a mosquito. It was ridiculous just because it seemed so unnecessarily elaborate—such a waste of steam."