"Sylvia! We are growing old."
Yet in her radiant presence it was preposterous to speak of age. She drew away with a sort of shudder.
"You wouldn't dare touch me again——"
He captured her glance. He felt that from his own eyes he failed to keep the unsatisfied desire of years.
"I haven't forgotten Upton, either. When will you give me what I want, Sylvia?"
Her glance eluded him. Swiftly she receded. Through the open door drifted a growing medley of voices. She hurried to the door, but he followed her, and purposefully climbed into the automobile she had entered, but they were no longer alone. Only once, when he made her dance with him in a huge, over-decorated tent, did he manage a whisper.
"No more nonsense with Dalrymple or anybody. Please stop making unhappiness."
XIV
George returned to New York with an uneasy spirit, filled with doubt as to Dalrymple's statement of renunciation, and of his own course in saying what he had of Dalrymple to Sylvia. Mightn't that very expression of disapproval, indeed, tend to swing her back to the man? When Lambert walked in a day or two later George looked at the happy, bronzed face, recalling his assurance that Betty wasn't one to give by halves. Through eyes clouded by such happiness Lambert couldn't be expected to see very far into the dangerous and avaricious discontent of the majority. How much less time, then, would he have for George's personal worries? George, nevertheless, guided the conversation to Dalrymple.
"He's running down to Oakmont with me to-night," Lambert said, carelessly. "You know Betty's there with the family for a few days."