“Yes—about accepting Howard.”
“Certainly. Is it not a sound theory? Doesn't it stand inspection? Doesn't it wear?”
“It—wears,” said Sylvia indifferently. Grace looked up from her open book. “Is anything amiss?” she asked.
“I don't know.”
“Of course you know, child. What is wrong? Has Howard made himself insufferable? He's a master at it. Has he?”
“No; I don't remember that he has.... I'm tired, physically. I'm tired of the winter.”
“Go to Florida for Lent.”
“Horror! It's as stupid as a hothouse. It isn't that, either, dear—only, when it was raining so deliciously the other day I was silly enough to think I scented the spring in the park. I was glad of a change you know—any excuse to stop this eternal carnival I live in.”
“What is the matter?” demanded Mrs. Ferrall, withdrawing her finger from the pages and plumping the closed book down on her knee. “You'd better tell me, Sylvia; you might just as well tell me now as later when my persistence has vexed us both. Now, what has happened?”
“I have been—imprudent,” said Sylvia, in a low voice.