“I don’t know,” she said. “What do you say?”
“I can stand it if you can,” laughed Frank; and so Sylvia ordered Mr. van Tuiver shown up.
§ 22
He stood in the doorway, clad in his faultless afternoon attire. Somehow he had recovered the hard brilliance, the look of the man of the world, which Sylvia had noticed the first evening. He gazed at Frank, not hiding very well his annoyance at finding a third party.
“Mr. van Tuiver, Mr. Shirley,” said Sylvia. “You do not know each other, I believe.”
“I know Mr. Shirley by sight,” said van Tuiver, graciously. He seated himself on a spindle-legged Louis Quinze chair—so stiffly that Sylvia thought of a purple domino. She beamed from one to the other, and then remarked, “What a curious commentary on the Harvard system! Two men studying side by side for three years, and not knowing each other!”
She was aware that this remark was not of the most tactful order. She made it on purpose, thinking to force the two into a discussion. But van Tuiver was not minded that way. “Er—yes,” he said, and relapsed into silence.
“Miss Castleman’s notions of courtesy are derived from a pastoral civilization,” said Frank, by way of filling in the breach. “You don’t realize the size of Harvard classes, Sylvia.”
The girl was watching the other man, and she saw that he had instantly noted Frank’s form of address. He looked sharply, first at his rival, and then at her. “Mr. Shirley is also from the South?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Sylvia, “we are near neighbors.”