The Seraph shook his head. "May I have one later?" he asked. "You oughtn't to cut Willoughby, he's been looking forward to it."
Sylvia was not accustomed or inclined to dictation from others.
"Have you asked him?" she said, uncertain whether to be amused or angry.
"It wasn't necessary. Haven't you felt his eyes on you while you were dancing? He thinks you're the most wonderful girl in the world. There he's right. He'll treasure up every word you speak, every smile you give him; he'll send himself to sleep picturing ways of saving your life at the cost of his own. And he'll dream of you all night."
The Seraph's tranquil, unemotional voice had grown so earnest that Sylvia found herself growing serious in spite of herself.
"I wish you wouldn't discuss me with boys like that," she said, more to gain time than administer reproof.
"Should I have discussed you?" exclaimed the Seraph. "And would he have told me? Why can't you, why can't any girl understand the mind of a boy of fifteen? You'd make such men of them if you'd only take the trouble. Look at him now, he's thinking out wonderful speeches to make to you...."
"I hope not," said Sylvia ruefully.
"He'll forget them all when he meets you. I was fifteen once."
"I wonder if you'll ever be more."