Jason had had an orphaned niece out in the middle west—his sister's child—a girl in her early twenties, and Marcia had invited her to the island for a visit.
In fact, Sylvia was expected today.
That was why a bowl of pansies stood upon the table in the big bedroom at the head of the stairs, and why its fireplace was heaped with driftwood ready for lighting. That was also the reason Marcia now stood critically surveying her preparations.
The house did look welcoming. With justifiable pride, she confessed to herself that Heaven had bestowed upon her a gift for that sort of thing. She knew where to place a chair, a table, a lamp, a book, a flower.
She was especially desirous the old home should look its best today, for the outside world had contributed a richness of setting that left her much to live up to. Sylvia had never seen the ocean. She must love it. But would she? That was to be the test.
If the girl came hither with eyes that saw not; if the splendor stretched out before her was wasted then undeterred, she might go back to her wheat fields, her flat inland air, her school teaching.
If, on the other hand, Wilton's beauty opened to her a new heaven and a new earth, if she proved herself a good comrade—well, who could say what might come of it?
There was room, money, affection enough for two beneath the Homestead roof and Sylvia was alone in the world. Moreover, Marcia felt an odd sense of obligation toward Jason. At the price of his life he had given her back her freedom. It was a royal gift and she owed him something in return.
She was too honest to pretend she had loved him or mourned his loss. Soon after the beginning of their life together, she had discovered he was not at all the person she had supposed him. The gay recklessness which had so completely bewitched her and which she had thought to be manliness had been mere bombast and bravado. At bottom he was a braggart—small, cowardly, purposeless—a ship without a rudder.