“Well, that's a wholesome confession, anyway. O dear, how I do yawn! and Lent only half over.... Sylvia, what are you staring at? Oh, I—see.”
They had driven south to Washington Square, where Mrs. Ferrall had desired to leave a note, and were now returning. Sylvia had leaned forward to look up at Siward's house, but with Mrs. Ferrall's first word she sank back, curiously expressionless and white; for she had seen a woman entering the front door and had recognised her as Marion Page.
“Well, of all indiscretions!” breathed Grace, looking helplessly at Sylvia. “Oh, no, that sort of thing is sheer effrontery, you know! It's rotten bad taste; it's no worse, of course—but it's bad taste. I don't care what privileges we concede to Marion, we're not going to concede this—unless she puts on trousers for good. It's all very well for her to talk her plain kennel talk, and call spades by their technical names, and smoke all over people's houses, and walk all over people's prejudices; but there's no sense in her hunting for trouble; and she'll get it, sure as scandal is scandal!”
And still Sylvia remained pale and silent, eyes downcast, shrinking close into her upholstered corner, as though some reflex instinct of self-concealment was still automatically dominating her.
“She ought to be spanked!” said Grace viciously. “If she were my daughter I'd do it, too!”
Sylvia did not stir.
“Little idiot! Going into a man's house in the face of all Fifth Avenue and the teeth of decency!”
“She has courage,” said Sylvia, still very white.
“Courage! Do you mean fool-hardiness?”
“No, courage—the courage I lacked. I knew he was too ill to leave his room and I lacked the courage to go and see him.”