"I have given up the stage," replied Sylvia. "Never mind. You can still be an amateur. You can't be a summer girl without accepting her responsibilities." "I'm not a summer girl. I just told you I'm a bee, and not a butterfly." "But even bees are keen for the flowers of life. You're not a thrifty bee unless you investigate and see how much honey you can get out of me." Sylvia laughed reluctantly. "No wonder Edna calls you a shy flower," she replied. Her heart had a sudden pang of remembrance. "How beautiful Edna is," she said, meeting her companion's lazy eyes. "Yes. You say she sings well?" "Enchantingly." "Does she sing Schubert?" "Ye-yes. I think he is the one, isn't he, who wrote 'Death and the Maiden'? She sang that Sunday morning before we went down in the woods. How long ago it seems!" Sylvia spoke wistfully and looked away, and again a mist stole across her vision. "Oh, let 'Death and the Maiden' go to--I was thinking of 'Who is Sylvia? What is she, that all the swains adore her?'" "I told you, Mr. Dunham, that you mustn't." "I'm only offering the bee a sample of my goods." "That isn't the sort that it pays to store. That's only fit for a butterfly's luncheon." "What is your special brand, then? You're rather a puzzle to me." It was true. Sylvia did puzzle this young man, accustomed to being a centre of social attraction wherever he went. Her exceptional prettiness and naivete had at first promised a _sauce piquante_ to his golden vacation hours. The sauce had indeed proved piquant, but by reason of its difficulty of access. Most girls he had known would have been more interested in himself than in the blueberries on the day of their picnic, but Sylvia had been unaffectedly and convincingly absorbed. Most girls would have picked up the metaphorical handkerchief he had thrown last evening, and remained on the piazza with him for a time. Most girls would have secured instead of eluded his escort to the woods this morning, and under the present circumstances would have made hay in the exhilarating sunshine with a grace and vigor which would have absolved him from all effort. He was quiet so long that Sylvia stole a glance at him. His eyes were closed, and she thought he had fallen asleep; so she let her gaze rest. The effect of strength and repose in his attitude made her long for pencil and paper, but she had none. Never mind, she could sketch him later from memory; and to do so she must study him now. With a purely artistic intent surely it was no harm to dwell upon the lines of his strong nose and chin, the humorous curves of his lips, and enjoy the effect of the warm, wind-rumpled hair around his forehead; and so her eyes remained fixed and she was unconscious of the light that began to warm and glow softly within them. CHAPTER XXVI REVELATION