She had so far controlled herself, but an old ache throbbed in her heart. "In college, when I heard the girls talking of their homes, it used to hurt me more than you can ever know. There were girls among my friends whose fathers were fine men,—some of them great and famous; and I used to feel sure that my father would have been like them. I felt—that I should have been proud of him." And suddenly she flung her arms upon the table and bowed her face upon them and wept.
He stood beside her, patiently, helplessly. The suggestion of her lonely girlhood with its hovering shadow smote him the more deeply because it emphasized the care she had taken to subordinate herself throughout their talk.
"Do you think you could ever be proud of me?—that you might even care a little, some day?" he asked, bending over her.
"Oh, if it could be so!" she whispered brokenly, so low that he bent closer to hear.
The room was very still. Sylvia rose and began drawing on her glove, not looking at him. She was afraid to risk more; there was, indeed, nothing more to say. It was for him to make his choice. He was silent so long that she despaired. Then he passed his hand across his face like one roused from sleep.
"Wait a moment," he said, "and I will walk home with you."
He went to the door and dispatched the guard on an errand; then he seated himself at the table and picked up a pad of paper. He was still writing when Harwood entered. Sylvia and Dan exchanged a nod, but no words passed between them. They watched the man at the table, as he wrote with a deliberation that Dan remembered as characteristic of him. When he had finished, he copied what he had written, put the copy in his breastpocket and buttoned his coat before glancing at Harwood.
"If I withdraw my name, what will happen?" he asked quietly.
"Ramsay will be nominated, sir," Dan answered.
Bassett studied a moment, fingering the memorandum he had written; then he looked at Dan quizzically.