Today Heath was taking his first walk and the two had strolled down to the water's edge where deep in a conversation more serious than usual they sat in the sun on the over-turned yellow dory.
To Marcia, watching from the porch, they appeared to be arguing—Sylvia pleadingly, Heath with stern resistance.
The woman could not but speculate as to the subject that engrossed them.
Not that she was spying. She would have scorned to do that.
She had merely stepped outside to shake a duster and they had caught her eye. It seemed, too, that she had chosen an inopportune moment for observation, for just at that instant Sylvia placed her hand entreatingly on Heath's arm and though he continued to talk, he caught and held it.
The fact that Sylvia neither evinced surprise, nor withdrew it forced her to the disconcerting conclusion that the thing was no unusual happening.
Marcia turned aside, jealousy clutching at her heart.
When, later in the day, the pair reëntered the house Heath, with a few pleasant words, caught up his overcoat and went out onto the steps to smoke, while Sylvia hurried to her room.
Marcia, passing through the hall, could see her golden head bent over the table as intent with pen and paper she dashed off page after page of a closely written letter.