“That you were shallow; that with the arts you used any woman could snare a man. But she would scorn to use them.” “Yes,” laughed the other, “she said it.” “Are you really as bad as that?” asked Harley. “What arts does she mean?” “This is a woman’s affair, Harley. What else did she say?” “She said her mother was disappointed in you. She thought you had a beautiful soul, but you’d let it be spoiled by flattery. She said you had no real understanding of a character like van Tuiver, or the responsibilities of his position.” Sylvia said nothing, but sat considering the matter. She had no philosophy about these affairs; she was following her instincts, and sometimes she was assailed by doubts and troubled by new points of view. She was surprised to realize how very revolutionary a standpoint she had come to take in the matter of Mrs. Winthrop’s favorite. Why should she, Sylvia Castleman, a descendant of Lady Lysle, be trying to pull down the pillars of the social temple? That was still her mood when, after Harley’s departure, the telephone rang and she found herself voice to voice with “Queen Isabella.” “Won’t you come and have luncheon with me, Sylvia?” asked the latter. “I’ve sent Edith away, so that we can be to ourselves. I want to have a long talk with you.” And Sylvia, in a penitent state, answered that she would come. § 19 She chose for this visit one of her simplest costumes—a white muslin, with pale green sprigs in it, and a pale green toque of a most alluringly Quakerish effect. A poet had designed it for her—one of her victims at the State University—and had specified that she must never wear it without a prayer-book in her hand. In this costume she sat in Mrs. Winthrop’s sombre paneled dining-room, with generations of sombre Puritan governors staring down from the walls at her; while the strange white servants stole noiselessly about on the velvet carpets, she gazed with wide, innocent eyes, and listened to her hostess’ delicately-worded sermon.