“Who? What do you mean?” asked Harriet.
“Frank Shirley.”
“What? You’ve met him?”
“Met him? I’ve been riding with him the whole morning, and I’ve almost let him propose to me!”
“Sylvia!” cried Harriet, aghast.
The other stood looking before her, grown suddenly thoughtful. “Yes, I did. And what’s more, I believe that to-morrow morning I’m going to let him propose to me.”
“Sunny,” exclaimed her friend, “are you a woman, or one of Satan’s imps?”
For answer Sylvia took her seat at the piano and began to sing—a song by which all her lovers set much store:
“Who is Sylvia? What is she,
That all our swains commend her?