“Are you, St—Mr. Siward?” mimicked Leila promptly.
“I am,” said Siward, laughing at Sylvia's significant colour and noting Plank's direct gaze as the waiter filled Leila's slender-stemmed glass. And “nothing but Apollinaris,” he said coolly, as the waiter approached him; but though his voice was easy enough, a dull patch of colour came out under the cheek-bones.
“That is all I care for, either,” said Sylvia with elaborate carelessness.
Plank and Leila immediately began to make conversation. Siward, his eyes bent on the glass of mineral water at his elbow, looked up in silence at Sylvia questioningly.
There was something in her face he did not quite comprehend. She made as though to speak, looked at him, hesitated, her lovely face eloquent under the impulse. Then, leaning toward him, she said:
“'And thy ways shall be my ways.'”
“Sylvia, you must not deny yourself, just because I—”
“Let me. It is the happiest thing I have ever done for myself.”
“But I don't wish it.”
“Ah, but I do,” she said, the low excited laughter scarcely fluttering her lips. “Listen: I never before, in all my life, gave up anything for your sake, only this one little pitiful thing.”