“By Jove!” he exclaimed for the third time. “Really, if I had you to make love to——”
“But you have me! You have me! For several precious minutes—alone and undisturbed! You are not a Boston Brahmin in a domino—you are a faun in the forests of Arcady. Come, Mr. Faun!” And Sylvia began to sing in a low, caressing manner:
“Oh, come, my love, to Arcady!
A dream path leads us, dear.
One hour of love in Arcady
Is worth a lifetime here!”
There was a pause. She could feel the man’s hand trembling. “I am waiting!” she whispered; to which he answered, “I wish you would talk! You make love so much better than I!”
Sylvia broke into one of her merry laughs. “A leap-year party!” she cried.
But the other was in earnest. “I like to listen to you,” he said. “Please go on!”
Sylvia was laughing so that she felt tears in her eyes, and she wanted to wipe them away under her mask. Her handkerchief was gone, and she looked for it—in her lap, beside her on the seat, and then on the floor. This led to a curious and unexpected turn in the adventure—her recognition of this New England faun. Seeing what she was doing, he said, “I beg pardon. Have you lost something?”