When Michael had gone Sylvia told Lily that marriage with him was impossible. "Why do you want to be married?" she demanded. "Was your mother so happy in her marriage? I tell you, child, that marriage is almost inconceivably dull. What have you got in common with him? Nothing, absolutely nothing." "I'm not a bit anxious to be married," Lily protested. "But when somebody goes on and on asking, it's so difficult to refuse. I liked Claude better than I like Michael. But Claude had to think about his future." "And what about your future?" Sylvia exclaimed. "Oh, I expect it'll be all right. Michael has money." "I say you shall not marry him," Sylvia almost shouted. "Oh, don't keep on so," Lily fretfully implored. "It gives me a headache. I won't marry him if it's going to upset you so much. But you mustn't leave me alone with him again, because he worries me just as much as you do." "We'll go away to-morrow," Sylvia announced, abruptly. It flashed upon her that she would like to go to Sirene with Lily, but, alas! there was not enough money for such a long journey, and Bournemouth or Brighton must be the colorless substitute. Lily cheered up at the idea of going away, and Sylvia was half resentful that she could accept parting from Michael so easily. Lily's frocks were not ready the next day, and in the morning Michael's ring was heard. "Oh, now I suppose we shall have more scenes," Lily complained. Sylvia ran after Mrs. Gainsborough, who was waddling down the garden path to open the door. "Come back, come back at once!" she cried. "You're not to open the door." "Well, there's a nice thing. But it may be the butcher." "We don't want any meat. It's not the butcher. It's Fane. You're not to open the door. We've all gone away." "Well, don't snap my head off," said Mrs. Gainsborough, turning back unwillingly to the house. All day long at intervals the bell rang. "The neighbors 'll think the house is on fire," Mrs. Gainsborough bewailed. "Nobody hears it except ourselves, you silly old thing," Sylvia said. "And what 'll the passers-by think?" Mrs. Gainsborough asked. "It looks so funny to see any one standing outside a door, ringing all day long like a chimney-sweep who's come on Monday instead of Tuesday. Let me go out and tell him you've gone away. I'll hold the door on the jar, the same as if I was arguing with a hawker. Now be sensible, Sylvia. I'll just pop out, pop my head round the door, and pop back in again." "You're not to go. Sit down." "You do order any one about so. I might be a serviette, the way you crumple me up. Sylvia, don't keep prodding into me. I may be fat, but I have got some feelings left. You're a regular young spiteful. A porter wouldn't treat luggage so rough. Give over, Sylvia." "What a fuss you make about nothing!" Sylvia said.