“It’s nine o’clock, Sylvia,” she said, “and Mr. Fiske is downstairs, asking to see you.  He tells me that you and he are engaged to be married.”

Sylvia was instantly wide awake.  “Oh no!  Oh no!” she said passionately.  “No, we’re not!  I won’t be!  I won’t see him!” She looked about her wildly, and added, “I’ll write him that—­just wait a minute.”  She sprang out of bed, caught up a pad of paper, and wrote hastily:  “It was all a mistake—­I don’t care for you at all—­not a bit!  I hope I shall never have to speak to you again.”  “There,” she said, thrusting it into her mother’s hands.  She stood for a moment, shivering in her thin nightgown in the icy draught, and then jumped back into bed again.

Her mother came back in a few moments, closed the windows, and opened the register.  There was not in her silence or in a line of her quiet presence the faintest hint of curiosity about Sylvia’s actions.  She had always maintained in theory, and now at this crisis with characteristic firmness of purpose acted upon her theory, that absolutely unforced confidence was the only kind worth having, and that moreover, unless some help was necessary, it might be as well for the younger generation early to acquire the strengthening capacity to keep its own intimate experiences to the privacy of its own soul, and learn to digest them and feed upon them without the dubiously peptonizing aid of blundering adult counsel.  Sylvia watched her mother with wondering gratitude.  She wasn’t going to ask!  She was going to let Sylvia shut that ghastly recollection into the dark once for all.  She wasn’t going by a look or a gesture to force her helplessly responsive child to give, by words, weight and substance to a black, shapeless horror from which Sylvia with a vivid impulse of sanity averted her eyes.

She got out of bed and put her arms around her mother’s neck.  “Say, Mother, you are great!” she said in an unsteady voice.  Mrs. Marshall patted her on the back.

“You’d better go and take your bath, and have your breakfast,” she said calmly.  “Judith and Lawrence have gone skating.”

When Sylvia, tingling with the tonic shock of cold water and rough toweling, and rosy in her old blue sailor-suit, came downstairs, she found her mother frying pancakes for her in the kitchen blue with smoke from the hot fat.  She was touched, almost shocked by this strange lapse from the tradition of self-help of the house, and said with rough self-accusation:  “My goodness!  The idea of your waiting on me!” She snatched away the handle of the frying-pan and turned the cakes deftly.  Then, on a sudden impulse, she spoke to her mother, standing by the sink.  “I came back because I found I didn’t like Jerry Fiske as much as I thought I did.  I found I didn’t like him at all,” she said, her eyes on the frying-pan.

At this announcement her mother’s face showed pale, and for an instant tremulous through the smoke.  She did not speak until Sylvia lifted the cakes from the pan and piled them on a plate.  At this signal of departure into the dining-room she commented, “Well, I won’t pretend that I’m not very glad.”