When the last note was still, the man stood up and moved away from the piano.  He dropped into an arm-chair near Sylvia, and leaning his fine, ugly head back against the brilliant chintz, he looked at her meditatively.  His great bodily suavity gave his every action a curious significance and grace.  Sylvia, still under the spell of his singing, did not stir, returning his look out of wide, dreaming eyes.

When he spoke, his voice blended with the silence almost as harmoniously as the music....  “Do you know what I wish you would do, Miss Sylvia Marshall?  I wish you would tell me something about yourself.  Now that I’m no longer forbidden to look at you, or think about you....”

“Forbidden?” asked Sylvia, very much astonished.

“There!” he said, wilfully mistaking her meaning, and smiling faintly, “I am such an old gentleman that I’m perfectly negligible to a young lady.  She doesn’t even notice or not whether I look at her, and think about her.”

A few years before this Sylvia would have burst out impetuously, “Oh yes, I have!  I’ve wondered awfully what made you so indifferent,” but now she kept this reflection to herself and merely said, “What in the world did you fancy was ‘forbidding’ you?”

“Honor!” said Morrison, with a note of mock solemnity. “Honor! Victoria was so evidently snatching at you as a last hope for Arnold.  She gave me to understand that everybody else but Arnold was to be strictly non-existent.  But now that Arnold has found a character beautifully and archaically simple to match his own primitive needs, I don’t see why I shouldn’t enjoy a little civilized talk with you.  In any case, it was absurd to think of you for Arnold.  It merely shows how driven poor Victoria was!”

Sylvia tried to speak lightly, although she was penetrated with pleasure at this explanation of his holding aloof.  “Oh, I like Arnold very much.  I always have.  There’s something ... something sort of touching about Arnold, don’t you think?  Though I must say that I’ve heard enough about the difference between training quail dogs and partridge dogs to last me the rest of my life.  But that’s rather touching too, his not knowing what to do with himself but fiddle around with his guns and tennis-racquets.  They’re all he has to keep him from being bored to death, and they don’t go nearly far enough.  Some day he will just drop dead from ennui, poor Arnold!  Wouldn’t he have enjoyed being a civil engineer, and laying out railroads in wild country!  He’d have been a good one too!  The same amount of energy he puts into his polo playing would make him fight his way through darkest Thibet.”  She meditated over this hypothesis for a moment and then added with a nod of her head, “Oh yes, I like Arnold ever so much ... one kind of ‘liking.’”