“Yes I do. You always do.”
“Not with that sort of man,” she returned naïvely; “he won't.”
Mrs. Ferrall regarded her suspiciously: “You always pick out exactly the wrong man to play with—”
They had moved back side by side into the hall, the hostess' arm linked in the arm of the younger girl.
“The wrong man?” repeated Sylvia, instinctively freeing her arm, her straight brows beginning to bend inward.
“I didn't mean that—exactly. You know how much I care for his mother—and for him.” The obstinate downward trend of the brows, the narrowing blue gaze signalled mutiny to the woman who knew her so well.
“What is so wrong with Mr. Siward?” she asked.
“Nothing. There was an affair—”
“This spring in town. I know it. Is that all?”
“Yes—for the present,” replied Grace Ferrall uncomfortably; then: “For goodness' sake, Sylvia, don't cross examine me that way! I care a great deal for that boy—”