into politics—­and now she had gone and acted so—­what in the world was the matter with her—­weren’t they engaged to be married—­couldn’t an engaged man kiss his girl—­had he ever been anything but too polite for words to her before she had promised to marry him—­and what about that promise anyhow?  His father had picked out the prettiest little mare in the stables to give her when the engagement should be announced—­the Colonel was as much at a loss as he to make her out—­if the trouble was that she didn’t want to live in Mercerton, he was sure the Colonel would fix it up for them to go direct to Washington, where with his father’s connection she could imagine what an opening they’d have!  And above all he was crazy about her—­he really was!  He’d never had any idea what it was to be in love before—­he hadn’t slept a wink the night she’d gone away—­just tossed on his bed and thought of her and longed to have her in his arms again—­Sylvia suddenly tore the letter in two and cast it into the fire, breathing hard.  In answer she wrote, “It makes me sick to think of you!”

She could not endure the idea of “talking over” the experience with any one, and struggled to keep it out of her mind, but her resolution to keep silence was broken by Mrs. Draper, who was informed, presumably by Jermain himself, of the circumstances, and encountering Sylvia in the street waited for no invitation to confidence by the girl, but pounced upon her with laughing reproach and insidiously friendly ridicule.  Sylvia, helpless before the graceful assurance of her friend, heard that she was a silly little unawakened schoolgirl who was throwing away a brilliantly happy and successful life for the queerest and funniest of ignorant notions.  “What did you suppose, you baby?  You wouldn’t have him marry you unless he was in love with you, would you?  Why do you suppose a man wants to marry a woman?  Did you suppose that men in love carry their sweethearts around wrapped in cotton-wool?  You’re a woman now, you ought to welcome life—­rich, full-blooded life—­not take this chilly, suspicious attitude toward it!  Why, Sylvia, I thought you were a big, splendid, vital, fearless modern girl—­and here you are acting like a little, thin-blooded New England old maid.  How can you blame Jerry?  He was engaged to you.  What do you think marriage is?  Oh, Sylvia, just think what your life would be in Washington with your beauty and charm!”

This dexterously aimed attack penetrated Sylvia’s armor at a dozen joints.  She winced visibly, and hung her head, considering profoundly.  She found that she had nothing to oppose to the other’s arguments.  Mrs. Draper walked beside her in a silence as dexterous as her exhortation, her hand affectionately thrust through Sylvia’s arm.  Finally, Sylvia’s ponderings continuing so long that they were approaching the Marshall house, in sight of which she had no mind to appear, she gave Sylvia’s arm a little pat, and stood still.