e said. "Quite serious. Do you want to talk
about it or not?"

She gave a little groan.

"No, I don't want to, but I've got to," she said. "Aunt Barbara--we
became Sylvia and Aunt Barbara an hour or two ago, and she's a
dear--Aunt Barbara has been talking to me about it already."

"And what did Aunt Barbara say?"

"Just what you are going to," said Sylvia; "namely, that I had better
make up my mind what I mean to say when Michael says what he means to
say."

She shifted round so as to face her brother as he stood in front of the
fire, and pulled his trouser-leg more neatly over the top of his shoe.

"But what's to happen if I can't make up my mind?" she said. "I needn't
tell you how much I like Michael; I believe I like him as much as I
possibly can. But I don't know if that is enough. Hermann, is it enough?
You ought to know. There's no use in you unless you know about me."

She put out her arm, and clasped his two legs in the crook of her
elbow. That expressed their attitude, what they were to each other, as
absolutely as any physical demonstration allowed. Had there not been the
difference of sex which severed them she could never have got the sense
of support that this physical contact gave her; had there not been her
sisterhood to chaperon her, so to speak, she could never have been so
at ease with a man. The two were lover-like, without the physical
apexes and limitations that physical love must always bring with it.
The complement of sex that brought them so close annihilated the very
existence of sex. They loved as only brother and sister can love,
without trouble.

The closer contact of his fire-warmed trousers to the calf of his leg
made Hermann step out of her encircling arm without any question of
hurting her feelings.

"I won't be burned," he said. "Sorry, but I won't be burned. It seems
to me, Sylvia, that you ought to like Michael a little more and a little
less."

"It's no use saying what I ought to do," she said. "The idea of what I
'ought' doesn't come in. I like him just as much as I like him, neither
more nor less."

He clawed some more cushions together, and sat down on the floor by
her. She raised herself a little and rested her body against his folded
knees.

"What's the trouble, Sylvia?" he said.

"Just what I've been trying to tell you."

"Be more concrete, then. You're definite enough when you sing."

She sighed and gave a little melancholy laugh.

"That's just it," she sa