“Harriet!” cried Sylvia, frantically, “I tell you I can’t endure the man!” “I know, Sunny—but that’s just nonsense. You’re in love with one man, and of course it sets you wild to think of another. But women can get used to things; and one doesn’t have to be too intimate with one’s husband. The man is dead in love with you, and so you’d always be able to manage him. I told you that about Beau—and I can assure you I’ve found it a convenient arrangement. From what I can make out, Mr. van Tuiver isn’t a bad sort at all—he seems to have charmed everybody down here. He’s not bad-looking, and he certainly has wonderful manners. He can go anywhere in the world, and if he had you to manage him and do things with him—really, Sunny, I can’t see what more you could want! Certainly it’s what your family wants—and after all, you’ll find it’s nice to be able to please your people when you marry. I know how you despise money, and all that—but, Sylvia, there aren’t many fortunes made out of cotton planting these days, and if you could hear poor Beau tell about what his folks have been through, you’d understand that family pride without cash is like mustard without meat!” So Harriet went on. She was a sprightly young lady, and generally able to hold her audience; but after several minutes of this exhortation, she stopped and asked, “Sunny, what are you thinking about?” And Sylvia, her face grown suddenly old with grief, caught her by the hand. “Oh, Harriet,” she whispered, “tell me the truth—do you think I ought to hear his explanation?” § 9 There were more dances and entertainments; and each time, of course, it was harder for Sylvia to escape. She had been to one, and so people would expect her at the next. There was always somebody who would be hurt if she refused, and there was always that dreadful phenomenon called “people”—it would say that the task had been too much for her, that she was still under the spell of the man who had flaunted her. So evening after evening Sylvia would choke back her tears, and drink more coffee, and go forth and pretend to be happy. It was at the third of these entertainments that she met Douglas van Tuiver. No one had told her of his return—she had no warning until she saw him enter the room. She had to get herself together and choose her course of action, with the eyes of the whole company upon her. For this was the meeting about which Castleman County had been gossiping and speculating for weeks—the rising of the curtain upon the second act of the thrilling drama! He was his usual precise and formal self; unimpeachably correct, and yet set apart by a something—a reserve, a dignity. This extended even to his costume, which tolerated no casual wrinkle, no presumptuous speck. There was always just a slight difference between van Tuiver’s attire and that of other men—and somehow you knew that this was the difference between the best and the average.