She realized suddenly to what extent he was boring her. He came the next day, and spent the better part of an hour talking to her about his experiences among the elect in various parts of the world. He had been shooting last fall upon the estates of the Duke of Something in Scotland. You went out in an automobile, and took a seat in an arm-chair, and had several score “beaters” drive tame pheasants towards you; you had two men to load your guns, and you shot the birds as they rose; but you could not shoot more than so many hundred of a morning, because the recoil of the gun gave you a headache. The Duke had a couple of guns which were something special—he valued them at a thousand guineas the pair.
“Mr. van Tuiver,” said the girl, suddenly, “there is something I want to say to you. I have been meaning to say it for some time. I think you ought not to stay here any longer.”
His face lost suddenly its expression of complacency. “Why, Miss Sylvia!” he exclaimed.
“I want to deal with you frankly. If you are here for any reason not connected with me, why all right; but if you are here on my account, I ought not to leave you under any misapprehension.”
He tried hard to recover his poise. “I had begun to hope”—he began. “You—are you sure it is true?”
“I am sure. You realize of course—it’s been obvious from the outset that my Aunt Nannie has entered into a sort of partnership with you, to help you persuade me to marry you. And of course there are others of my friends—even members of my family, perhaps—who would be glad to have me do it. Also, you must know that I’ve been trying to persuade myself.” Sylvia lowered her eyes; she could not look at him as she said this. “I thought perhaps it was my duty—the only useful thing I could do with my life—to marry a rich man, and use his money to help the people I love. So I tried to persuade myself. But it’s impossible—I could not, could not do it!”
She paused. “Miss Sylvia,” he ventured, “can you be sure—perhaps if you married me, you might——”
“No!” she cried. “Please don’t say any more. I know you ought not to stay! I could never marry you, and you are throwing away your time here. You ought to go!”
There was a silence. “Miss Sylvia,” he began, finally, “this is like a death-sentence to me.”
“I know,” she said, “and I’m sorry. But there’s no help for it. Putting off only makes it worse for you.”