"I'm not so sorry as I was," Sylvia told her. "Ah, didn't I warn you against the first year? You'll see that I was right." "But I was not sorry in the way you prophesied. I've never had any bothers with the country. Philip's sister was rather a bore, always wondering about his clothes for the year after next; but we made a treaty, and she's been excluded from The Old Farm--wait a bit, only till next October. By Jove! I say, the treaty'll have to be renewed. I don't believe even memories of Sirene would enable me to deal with Gertrude this winter. No, what worries me most in marriage is not other people, but our two selves. I hate writing Sylvia Iredale instead of Sylvia Scarlett. Quite unreasonable of me, but most worries are unreasonable. I don't want to be owned. I'm a book to Philip; he bought me for my binding and never intended to read me, even if he could. I don't mean to say I was beautiful, but I was what an American girl at Hornton House used to call cunning; the pattern was unusual, and he couldn't resist it. But now that he's bought me, he expects me to stay quite happily on a shelf in a glass case; one day he may perhaps try to read me, but at present, so long as I'm taken out and dusted--our holiday at Sirene was a dusting--he thinks that's enough. But the worm that flies in the heart of the storm has got in, Victoria, and is making a much more unusual pattern across my inside--I say, I think it's about time to drop this metaphor, don't you?" "I don't think I quite understand all you're saying," said Victoria Worsley. Sylvia brought her hand from beneath the bedclothes and took her friend's. "Does it matter?" "Oh, but I like to understand what people are saying," Mrs. Worsley insisted. "That's why we never go abroad for our holidays. But, Sylvia, about being owned, which is where I stopped understanding. Lennie doesn't own me." "No, you own _him_, but I don't own Philip." "I expect you will, my dear, after you've been married a little longer." "You think I shall acquire him in monthly instalments. I should find at the end the cost too much in repairs, like Fred Organ." "Who's he?" "Hube's brother, the cabman. Don't you remember?" "Oh, of course, how silly of me! I thought it might be an Italian you met at Sirene. You've made me feel quite sad, Sylvia. I always want everybody to be happy," she sighed. "I am happy--perfectly happy--in spite of being married." "Nobody's happy because of being married," Sylvia enunciated, rather sententiously. "What nonsense you talk, and you're only just eighteen!" "That's why I talk nonsense," Sylvia said, "but all the same it's very true nonsense. You and Lennie couldn't have ever been anything but happy." "Darling Lennie, I think it must be because he's so stupid. I wonder if he's smoking in bed. He always does if I leave him to go and talk to anybody. Good night, dear."