“What, for instance?”
“There is Memorial Hall—a building that stands for something. I can see that, even if all my people were on the other side in the war. There you find the democracy of the college, the spirit of real comradeship. But did you ever eat a meal in Memorial Hall?”
“No,” said he, “I never did.”
Sylvia thought for a moment. “Do ladies eat there?” she asked; and when he answered in the negative, she laughed. “Of course, that was only a ‘pretty girl’s whim’—as you call it. But if you, Douglas van Tuiver, would go there, as a matter of course—right along, I mean——”
“Eat at Memorial Hall!” he exclaimed. “My dear Miss Castleman, I wouldn’t eat—I’d be eaten!”
“In other words,” said she, coldly, “you admit that you can’t take care of yourself as a man among men.”
It was amusing to perceive his dismay over her idea. He came back to it, after a minute. He wanted to know if that was the sort of thing he’d have to do to win her regard; and he repeated the phrase with a sort of fascinated horror. “Eat at Memorial Hall!”
Until at last Sylvia declared with asperity, “Mr. van Tuiver, I don’t care whether you eat at all, until you’ve found something better to do with your life.”
§ 17
He took these rages of hers very humbly. He was becoming extraordinarily tame. “I suppose you find me exasperating,” he said, “but you must realize that I’m trying my best to understand you. You want me to make my life all over, and it isn’t easy for me to see the necessity of it. What harm do I do here, just by keeping to myself?”