“I wonder whether you thought it necessary to tell Muriel so?”

Sylvia sighed.

“I’m afraid I didn’t.  I can hardly expect Muriel to quite understand or sympathize.  She has you, and the flowers she’s so fond of, and quiet friends of the kind she likes; while it’s so different with me.  Besides, I was never meant for retirement.”

“That,” laughed Lansing, “is very true.”

“Of course,” Sylvia went on; “I shall be very quiet, but there are things one really has to take part in.”

“Bridge is expensive unless you’re unusually lucky, or an excellent player,” Lansing suggested.  “However, it would be more to the purpose if you mentioned what is the least you could manage with.”

Sylvia told him, and he knit his brows.

“Money’s tight with me just now,” he objected.

“You know it’s only on account.  George will do ever so much better next year; and I dare say, if I pressed him, he would send another remittance.”

“His letter indicates that he’d find it difficult.”

“George wouldn’t mind that.  He rather likes doing things that are hard, and it’s comforting to think that self-denial doesn’t cost him much.  I’m thankful I have him to look after the farm.”

Lansing regarded her with ironical amusement; he knew what her gratitude was worth.

“Yes,” he agreed significantly, “George seldom expects anything for himself.  I’m afraid I’m different in that respect.”

Sylvia sat silent for a few moments, because she understood.  If Herbert granted the favor, he would look for something in return, though she had no idea what this would be.  She was conscious of a certain hesitation, but she did not allow it to influence her.

“I don’t doubt it,” she rejoined with a smile.  “Can’t you let me have a check?  That will make you my creditor, but I’m not afraid you’ll be very exacting.

“Well,” was the response, “I will see what I can do.”

She went out and Lansing filled his pipe with a feeling of satisfaction.  He was not running much risk in parting with the money, and Sylvia might prove useful by and by.

Sylvia left Brantholme shortly afterward and, somewhat to her annoyance, found Ethel West a guest at the house she visited.  Ethel had known Dick; she was a friend of George’s, and, no doubt, in regular communication with her brother in Canada.  It was possible that she might allude to Sylvia’s doings when she wrote; but there was some consolation in remembering that George was neither an imaginative nor a censorious person.

Sylvia had spent a delightful week in her new surroundings, when she descended the broad stairway one night with a shawl upon her arm and an elegantly bound little notebook in her hand.  A handsome, dark-haired man whose bearing proclaimed him a soldier walked at her side.  Bland’s glance was quick and direct, but he had a genial smile and his manners were usually characterized by a humorous boldness.  Still, it was difficult to find fault with them, and Sylvia had acquiesced in his rather marked preference for her society.  She was, however, studying the little book as she went down the shallow steps and her expression indicated dissatisfaction.