“What shall we do—wait?” she asked; to which the man replied, “I don’t mind.”
“Thank you,” she said, graciously. “We’ll have to make the best of it. Don’t you think you can manage to do a little better than the last time?”
“I’ll try,” he replied. “It’s beastly stupid, I think.”
Sylvia considered. “No,” she declared, “I believe it’s the game of all games for you.”
“How so?”
“Go down into the deeps of you. Haven’t you something there that is real—something primitive and untamed, that chafes against propriety, and wishes it had not been born in Boston?”
“I was not born in Boston,” said he.
“Perhaps not in your body,” said Sylvia, “but your soul is a Boston soul. And now think of this opportunity to fling loose, to be just as bad as you want to be—and quite without danger of detection, of having your reputation damaged! Surely, sir, there could be no game more adapted to the New England conscience!”
“By Jove!” exclaimed the man; and actually there was warmth in his tone. Sylvia’s heart leaped, and she caught him by the hand. “Quick! Quick!” she cried. “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may—old time is still a-flying!”
“By Jove!” exclaimed the man again; and Sylvia, kindling with mischief, pressed his hand more tightly and brought him upon his knees before her. “Make haste! You have but one life—one chance to be yourself—to vent your emotions! I’ve no idea who you are, I can’t possibly tell on you—and so you may utter those things which you keep hidden even from yourself!”