“Sylvia!” he pleaded, surprised by her vehemence. “Don’t you realize that you love me?” “I don’t know! I’m afraid! I must have time!” She was weeping convulsively now. “You will never respect me again!” “You must not say such a thing as that! It is not true!” “You will go away and remember it, and you will despise me!” His voice was calm and very soothing. “Sylvia,” he said, “I have told you that I love you. And I believe that you love me. If that is so, I had a perfect right to kiss you, and you had a perfect right to let me kiss you.” There he was, sensible as ever; Sylvia found the storm of her emotion dying away. She had time to recall one of the maxims of Lady Dee: “A woman should never let a man see her weeping. It makes her cheeks pale and her nose red.” She resolved that she would stay in the protecting shadows of the summer-house until after he had departed. § 19 She went home; and at the dinner-table she was telling some of the adventures of the house party. “Oh, by the way,” she said, carelessly, “I met Frank Shirley.” “Really?” exclaimed Mrs. Castleman. “Those poor, unfortunate people!” “He must be quite a man now,” said Aunt Varina. “How old is he?” “About twenty-one,” said the mother. Sylvia was amazed; she had not thought definitely of his age, but he had seemed a mature man to her. “I see him now and then,” put in the Major. “He comes to town. Not a bad-looking chap.” “He asked if he might call,” said Sylvia. “I told him, Yes. Was that right, Papa?” “Why, certainly,” was the reply. “He seems a very shy, silent kind of man,” she added. “He wasn’t sure that he’d be welcome.” “Why, my dear,” exclaimed Mrs. Castleman. “I’m sure we’ve never made any difference in our treatment of the Shirleys!” “Bob Shirley’s children will always be welcome to my home, so long as they behave themselves,” declared the father. And so Sylvia left the matter, content with their attitude. Frank was wrong in his estimate of her family. Two days later there came a negro man, riding a mule and carrying a bag, with a note from Frank. He begged her to accept this present of quail, because she had lost so much of her hunting time, and Charlie Peyton’s aim had been so bad. Sylvia read the note, and got from it a painful shock. The handwriting was boyish and the manner of expression crude. She was used to leisure-class stationery, with her monogram in gold at the top, and this was written upon a piece of cheap paper. Somehow it made the whole matter seem unreal and incredible to her. She found herself trying to recall how he looked.