The call passed with no noteworthy incidents beyond a growing wonder in Sylvia’s mind that the brilliant and dashing old Colonel, after his other matrimonial experiences, should have picked out so dull and colorless a wife.  She was not even pretty, not at all pretty, in spite of her delicate, regular features and tall figure.  Her hair was dry and thin, her eyes lusterless, her complexion thick, with brown patches on it, and her conversation was of a domesticity unparalleled in Sylvia’s experience.  She seemed oddly drawn to Mrs. Marshall, although that lady was now looking rather graver than was her wont, and talked to her of the overflowing Fiske nursery with a loquacity which was evidently not her usual habit.  Indeed, she said naively, as she went away, that she had been much relieved to find Mrs. Marshall so approachable.  “One always thinks of University families as so terribly learned, you know,” she said, imputing to her hostess, with a child’s tactlessness, an absence of learning like her own.  “I really dreaded to come—­I go out so little, you know—­but Jerry and the Colonel thought I ought, you know—­and now I’ve really enjoyed it—­and if Miss Marshall will come, Jerry and the Colonel will be quite satisfied.  And so, of course, will I.”  With which rather jerky valedictory she finally got herself out of the house.

Sylvia looked at her mother inquiringly.  “If I go where?” she asked.  Something must have taken place while she was out of the room getting the tea.

“She called to invite you formally to a Christmas house-party at the Fiskes’ place in Mercerton,” said Mrs. Marshall, noting smilelessly Sylvia’s quick delight at the news.  “Oh, what have I got to wear!” cried the girl.  Mrs. Marshall said merely, “We’ll see, we’ll see,” and without discussing the matter further, went back to finish the interrupted game with Lawrence.

But the next evening, when Professor Marshall returned from his latest trip, the subject was taken up in a talk between Sylvia and her parents which was more agitating to them all than any other incident in their common life, although it was conducted with a great effort for self-control on all sides.  Judith and Lawrence had gone upstairs to do their lessons, and Professor Marshall at once broached the subject by saying with considerable hesitation, “Sylvia—­well—­how about this house-party at the Fiskes’?”

Sylvia was on the defense in a moment.  “Well, how about it?” she repeated.

“I hope you don’t feel like going.”

“But I do, very much!” returned Sylvia, tingling at the first clear striking of the note of disapproval she had felt for so many weeks like an undertone in her life.  As her father said nothing more, biting his nails and looking at her uncertainly, she added in the accent which fitted the words, “Why shouldn’t I?”

He took a turn about the room and glanced at his wife, who was hemming a napkin very rapidly, her hands trembling a little.  She looked up at him warningly, and he waited an instant before speaking.  Finally he brought out with the guarded tone of one forcing himself to moderation of speech, “Well, the Colonel is an abominable old black-guard in public life, and his private reputation is no better.”