Sylvia had promised to go with Frank the next day to a luncheon in his rooms. She found herself looking forward with relief to meeting his “crowd.” “Oh, Frank,” she said, when they had set out together, “you’ve no idea how glad I am to see you. I have such a craving for something home-like. You can’t understand, perhaps——” “Perhaps I can,” said Frank, smiling. “I can’t say that I’ve been in Boston society, but I’ve been on the outskirts.” “Frank,” she exclaimed, “you don’t ever worry about me, do you? Truly, the more I see of other people, the more I love you. And all I want is to be alone with you. I’m tired of the game. Everybody expects me to be pert and saucy; and I can be it, you know——” She stopped, and he smiled. “Yes, I know.” “But since I’ve met you, I get sorry, sometimes even ashamed. You see what you’ve done to me!” “What in the world have you been doing?” he asked. “Oh, some day I’ll tell you—don’t ask me now. It’s just that I’m tired of society—I wasn’t cut out for the life.” “Why, it was only a few days ago that you were talking about bringing me out!” “I know, Frank. I try to play the game, but deep down in my soul I hate it. I’m successful now, but it’s the truth that in the beginning I never took a step that I wasn’t driven. When I went into a ball-room, my teeth would chatter with fright, and I’d want to hide in a corner. Aunt Nannie would get hold of me, and take me into the dressing-room, and scold me and stir me up. I can hear her now. ‘You! Sylvia Castleman, my niece, a wallflower! Have you forgotten who you are?’ So then, of course, I’d have to think of my ancestors and be worthy of them. She’d pinch my cheeks until they were red, and wipe the wet corners of my eyes, and put a fresh dab of powder on my nose, and stick in a strand of hair, and twist a curl, and shift a bow of ribbon to the other shoulder—and then out I’d go to be stared at.” “You’ve got the job pretty well in hand by now,” smiled Frank. “Yes, I know, but I don’t really like it—not with my real self. I’m always thinking what fun it would be to be natural! I wonder what I’d turn into! And whether you’d like me!” “I’d take my chances.” “Would you really, Frank? Just suppose I stopped dressing, for instance? Suppose I never wore high heels and stiff collars? Suppose I dispensed with my _modiste_, and you discovered that I had no figure.” “I’d take my chances,” he laughed again. “You look at me, and you like what you see. But you’ve no idea what a work of art I am, nor how much I cost—thousands and thousands of dollars! And so many people to watch me and scold me—so much work to be done on me, day after day! Suppose my hair wasn’t curled, for instance! Or suppose my nose were shiny!” “I don’t mind shiny so much, Sylvia——”