Sylvia was struck by the reflection, but on turning it over she saw in it only another reason for anger at Morrison.  “You make your old friend out as a very weak character,” she said.

Mrs. Marshall-Smith’s tolerant, clear view of the infirmities of humanity was grieved by this fling of youthful severity.  “Oh, my dear! my dear!  A young, beautiful, enormendously rich, tremendously enamored girl?  That’s a combination!  I don’t think we need consider Felix exactly weak for not having resisted!”

Sylvia thought she knew reasons for his not yielding, but she did not care to discuss them, and said nothing.

“But whether,” continued Mrs. Marshall-Smith, attempting delicately to convey the only reflection supposed to be of comfort to a girl in Sylvia’s situation, “whether or not Molly will find after marriage that even a very masterful and ruthless temperament may fail entirely to possess and hold the things it has grabbed and carried off ...”

Sylvia repudiated the tacit conception that this would be a balm to her.  “Oh, I’m sure I hope they’ll manage!” she said earnestly.

“Of course!  Of course!” agreed Mrs. Marshall-Smith.  “Who doesn’t hope so?” She paused, her loquacity run desperately thin.  There was the sound of a car, driving up to the front door.  Sylvia rose in apprehension.  Her aunt motioned a reassurance.  “I told Tojiko to tell every one that we are not in—­to anybody.”

Helene came to the door on silent, felt-shod feet, a black-and-white picture of well-trained servility.  “Pardon, Madame, Tojiko says that Mlle. Sommerville wishes to see Mlle. Sylvie.”

Mrs. Marshall-Smith looked with considerable apprehension at her niece.  “You must get it over with some time, Sylvia.  It’ll be easier here than with a lot of people staring at you both, and making nasty speculations.”  Neither she nor Sylvia noticed that for an instant, in her haste, she had quite dropped her careful pretension that Sylvia could, of course, if she had really cared to....

Sylvia set her jaw, an action curiously visible under the smooth, subtle modeling of her young cheeks.  She said to Helene in a quiet voice:  “Mais bien sur! Tell her we’re not yet dressed, but if she will give herself the trouble to come up....”

Helene nodded and retreated.  Sylvia looked rather pale.

“You don’t know what a joy your perfect French is to me, dear,” said Mrs. Marshall-Smith, still rapidly turning every peg in sight in an endeavor to loosen tension; but no noticeable relaxation took place in Sylvia.  It did not seem to her at just that moment of great importance that she could speak good French.

With desperate haste she was saying to herself, “At least Molly doesn’t know about anything.  I told her I didn’t care.  She believed me.  I must go on pretending that I don’t.  But can I!  But can I!”

Light, rapid steps came flying up the stairs and down the long hall.  “Sylvia!  Sylvia!” Molly was evidently hesitating between doors.