A gray mist was hastening nightfall, though the street lamps were not yet lighted.  The glow of Mrs. Owen’s kindness lingered with Sylvia as she walked toward Elizabeth House.  She was constantly surprised by her friend’s intensely modern spirit—­her social curiosity, and the breadth and sanity of her views.  This suggestion of a vocational school for young women had kindled Sylvia’s imagination, and her thoughts were upon it as she tramped homeward through the slush.  To establish an institution such as Mrs. Owen had indicated would require a large sum of money, and there were always the Bassetts, the heirs apparent of their aunt’s fortune.  Any feeling of guilt Sylvia may have experienced by reason of her enforced connivance with Mrs. Owen for the expenditure of her money was mitigated by her belief that the Bassetts were quite beyond the need of their aunt’s million, the figure at which Mrs. Owen’s fortune was commonly appraised.

She was thinking of this when a few blocks from Mrs. Owen’s she met Morton Bassett.  The electric lamp overhead was just sputtering into light as he moved toward her out of an intersecting street.  His folded umbrella was thrust awkwardly under his arm, and he walked slowly with bent head.  The hissing of the lamp caused him to lift his eyes.  Sylvia paused an instant, and he raised his hat as he recognized her.

“Good evening, Miss Garrison!  I’ve just been out for a walk.  It’s a dreary evening, isn’t it?”

Sylvia explained that she had been to Mrs. Owen’s and was on her way home, and he asked if he might go with her.

“Marian usually walked with me at Fraserville, but since we’ve been here, Sunday seems to be her busy day.  I find that I don’t know much about the residential district; I can easily lose myself in this part of town.”

During these commonplaces she wondered just where their conversation at Marian’s ball had left them; the wet street was hardly a more favorable place for serious talk than the crowded Propylaeum.  The rain began to fall monotonously, and he raised his umbrella.

“Some things have happened since our last talk,” he observed presently.

“Yes?” she replied dubiously.

“I want to talk to you of them,” he answered.  “Dan has left me.  You know that?”

“Yes; I know of it.”

“And you think he has done quite the fine thing about it—­it was what you would have had him do?”

“Yes, certainly.  You practically told me you were putting him to the test.  You weren’t embarrassed by his course in any way; you were able to show him that you didn’t care; you didn’t need him.”

“You saw that?  You read that in what followed?”

“It was written so large that no one could miss it.  You are the master.  You proved it again.  I suppose you found a great satisfaction in that.  A man must, or he wouldn’t do such things.”

“You seem to understand,” he replied, turning toward her for an instant.  “But there may be one thing you don’t understand.”