Sylvia hesitated a barely perceptible instant, until she saw old Mr. Sommerville’s eyes fixed speculatively on her.  Then she stood up with an instant, cheerful alacrity.  “That’s awfully good of you, Molly darling! You won’t mind, will you, Mr. Morrison!” She nodded brightly to the old gentleman, to the girl who had slipped into her place, to the other man, and was off.

The man she had left looked after her, as she trod with her long, light step beside the young man, and murmured, “Et vera incessu patuit dea.”

Molly moved a plate on the table with some vehemence.  “I suppose Sylvia would understand that language.”

“She would, my dear Molly, and what’s more, she would scorn me for using such a hackneyed quotation.”  To Mr. Sommerville he added, laughing, “Isn’t it the quaintest combination—­such radiant girlhood and her absurd book-learning!”

Mr. Sommerville gave his assent to the quaintness by silence, as he rose and prepared to retreat.

“Good-bye, Grandfather,” said Molly with enthusiasm.

* * * * *

As they walked along, Arnold was saying to Sylvia with a listless appreciation:  “You certainly know the last word of the game, don’t you, Sylvia?  I bet Morrison hasn’t had a jolt like that for years.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Sylvia, perhaps slightly overdoing her ignorance of his meaning.

“Why, it’s a new thing for him, let me tell you, to have a girl jump up as soon as he comes in and delightedly leave him to another girl.  And then to thank the other girl for being willing to take him off your hands,—­that’s more than knowing the rules,—­that’s art!” He laughed faintly at the recollection.  “It’s a new one for Morrison to meet a girl who doesn’t kowtow.  He’s a very great personage in his line, and he can’t help knowing it.  The very last word on Lord-knows-what-all in the art business is what one Felix Morrison says about it.  He’s an eight-cylinder fascinator too, into the bargain.  Mostly he makes me sore, but when I think about him straight, I wonder how he manages to keep on being as decent as he is—­he’s really a good enough sort!—­with all the high-powered petticoats in New York burning incense.  It’s enough to turn the head of a hydrant.  That’s the hold Madrina has on him.  She doesn’t burn any incense.  She wants all the incense there is being burned, for herself; and it keeps old Felix down in his place—­keeps him hanging around too.  You stick to the same method if you want to make a go of it.”

“I thought he wrote.  I thought he did aesthetic criticisms and essays,” said Sylvia, laughing aloud at Arnold’s quaint advice.