, but
Sylvia, after a moment's hesitation, lingered near the big wood-fire
in the hall, unwilling to admit that she had never seen a billiard
table. She made a pretext of staying to talk to Mrs. Fiske, who sat
stooping her tall figure forward in a chair too small for her. Sylvia
looked at this ungraceful attitude with strong disapproval. What she
thought was that such inattention to looks was perfectly inexcusable.
What she said was, in a very gracious voice: "What a beautiful home
you have, Mrs. Fiske! How wonderfully happy you must be in it."

The other woman started a little at being addressed, and looked around
vaguely at the conventional luxury of the room, with its highly
polished floors, its huge rich rugs, its antlers on the wall, and its
deeply upholstered leather chairs. When Sylvia signified her intention
of continuing the talk by taking a seat beside the fire, Mrs. Fiske
roused herself to the responsibility of entertaining the young guest.
After some futile attempts at conversation in the abstract, she
discharged this responsibility through the familiar expedient of the
family photograph album. With this between them, the two women were
able to go through the required form of avoiding silences. Sylvia was
fearfully bored by the succession of unknown faces, and utterly unable
to distinguish, in her hostess' somewhat disconnected talk, between
the different sets of the Colonel's children. "This one is Stanley,
Jermain's brother, who died when he was a baby," the dull voice droned
on; "and this is Mattie in her wedding dress."

"Oh, I didn't know Jerry had a married sister," murmured Sylvia
indifferently, glad of any comment to make.

"She's only his half-sister, a great deal older."

"But _you_ haven't a daughter old enough to be married?" queried
Sylvia, astonished.

"Oh--no--no. Mattie is the daughter of the Colonel's first wife."

"Oh," said Sylvia awkwardly, remembering now that Mrs. Draper had
spoken of the Colonel's several marriages. She added to explain her
question, "I'd forgotten that Jerry's mother was the Colonel's second
wife and not his first."

"She was his third," breathed Mrs. Fiske, looking down at the pages of
the album.

Sylvia repressed a "Good gracious!" of startled repugnance to the
topic, and said, to turn the conversation, "Oh, who is that beautiful
little girl with the fur cap?"

"That is my picture," said Mrs. Fiske, "when I was eighteen. I was
married soon after. I've ch