Everything was perfect, so long as he was _there_. To his scruples,
despairs, delights, and doubts she always answered that, after all, they
were only privately engaged, like heaps of people. And since Woodville
had this peculiar--she secretly thought insane--objection to marrying
her because she was an heiress and he was poor, then they must wait.
Something would happen, and all was sure to come right. She did not wish
to tell her father of the understanding at present, because she feared
Woodville would probably have to go away at once. They would tell him
when she was twenty-one. Only one year, and everything would be open and
delightful.

A strong motive that kept Woodville there was jealousy. Sylvia, discreet
as she was--no sparkling, teasing coquette--had yet all the irresistible
magnetism of a woman who is obviously made for tenderness. But she
showed as much deftness in keeping back her admirers as most girls do in
attracting them. She had curious deep delicacies; she disliked nothing
so much as to feel or show her power as a woman. Pride or vanity was
equally out of the question in her love; it was unselfish and yet it was
not exacting, as unselfish love generally is. So far as she knew, no
unselfishness was required from him. With the unconscious cruelty of
innocence she had kept him in this false position for years, looking
happily forward to a rose-coloured future.

Was it consistent that, with all his scruples, Woodville had drifted
into this romance?

A lovely girl of twenty and a remarkably good-looking young man of
twenty-eight meeting every day, every moment, at every meal--she,
romantic; he, the most impressionable of materialists! Surely nothing
could be expected but (for once) the obvious!

The Greek banker, Mr. Ridokanaki, said to be one of the richest men in
England, had of late begun to pay Sylvia what he considered marked
attention. Huge baskets of flowers, sometimes in the form of silver
ships, sometimes of wicker wheelbarrows, or of brocaded sedan-chairs,
and filled with orchids, lilies, roses, everything that, in the opinion
of a middle-aged banker, would be likely to dazzle and delight a nice
young girl, were sent periodically to Onslow Square. These floral
tributes flattered Sir James and Savile; Woodville said they were
hideous; and Sylvia (who neither wrote to thank their sender nor even
acknowledged them) always had them conveyed immediately to the
housekeeper's room. The Greek's in