hich reached him from her. It became
ponderable in her dark hair; in her lips half parted; in her graceful
pose as she bent toward him attentively; in her sudden movement of
withdrawal, as if she had suddenly realized he would never give her her
way.

"Isn't it time," he asked, "that you forgot some of your childish pride
and bad temper? Sylvia! When are you going to marry me?"

Her laughter wasn't even, but she arose unhurriedly. She paused, indeed,
and sank back on the arm of the chair.

"So even now," she said, "it's to be quarrels or nothing."

"Or everything," he corrected her. "I shall make you realize it somehow,
some day. What's the use putting it off? Let's forget the ugly part of
the past. Marry me before I go to France."

He was asking her what he had accused Lambert of unjustifiably wanting
Betty to do. All at once he understood Lambert's haste. He stretched out
his hand to Sylvia. He meant it--with all his heart he meant it, but she
answered him scornfully:

"Is that your way of saying you love me?"

The bitterness of many years revived in his mind, focusing on that
question. If he should answer it impulsively she would be in a position
to hurt him more than she had ever done. George Morton didn't dare take
chances with his impulses, and the bitterness was in his voice when he
answered:

"You've never let me fancy myself at your feet in a sentimental fit."

But it was difficult for him not to assume such an attitude: not to take
her hand, both of her hands; not to draw her close.

"If you'd only answer me----" he began.

She stood up.

"Just as when I first saw you!" she cried, angrily.

She controlled herself.

"You shan't force me to quarrel. Come in. Let us dance once."

In a sense he put himself at her feet then.

"I'm afraid to dance with you to-night," he whispered.

She looked at him, her eyes full of curiosity. Her eyes wavered. She
turned and started across the gallery. In a panic he sprang after her.

"All right. Let us dance," he said.

He led her to the floor and took her in his arms, but he had an
impression of guiding an automaton about the room. Almost at once she
asked him to stop by the door leading to the gallery. He looked at her
questioningly. Her distaste for the civilian Morton was undisguised at
last from the soldier Morton. But there was more than that to be read in
her colourful face--self-distaste, perhaps; and a sort of fright,
comparable with the panic Geo