It was a fine September afternoon and Sylvia reclined pensively in a canvas hammock on Herbert Lansing’s lawn with one or two opened letters in her hand.  Bright sunshine lay upon the grass, but it was pleasantly cool in the shadow of the big copper beech.  A neighboring border glowed with autumn flowers:  ribands of asters, spikes of crimson gladiolus, ranks of dahlias.  Across the lawn a Virginia creeper draped the house with vivid tints.  The scene had nothing of the grim bareness of the western prairie of which Sylvia was languidly thinking; her surroundings shone with strong color, and beyond them a peaceful English landscape stretched away.  She could look out upon heavily-massed trees, yellow fields with sheaves in them, and the winding streak of a flashing river.

Yet Sylvia was far from satisfied.  The valley was getting dull; she needed distraction, and her letters suggested both the means of getting it and a difficulty.  She wore black, but it had an artistic, almost coquettish, effect, and the big hat became her well, in spite of its simple trimming.  Sylvia bestowed a good deal of thought upon her appearance.

After a while Mrs. Lansing came out and joined her.

“Is there any news in your letters?” she asked.

“Yes,” answered Sylvia; “there’s one from George ­it’s a little disappointing, but you can read it.  As usual, he’s laconic.”

George’s curtness was accounted for by the fact that he had been afraid of saying too much, but Sylvia carelessly handed the letter to her companion.

“After all, he shows a nice feeling,” Mrs. Lansing remarked.  “He seems to regret very much his inability to send you a larger check.”

“So do I,” said Sylvia with a petulant air.

“He points out that it has been a bad season and he has lost his crop.”

“Bad seasons are common in western Canada; I’ve met farmers who seemed to thrive on them.”

“No doubt they didn’t do so all at once.”

“I dare say that’s true,” Sylvia agreed.  “It’s very likely that if I give him plenty of time, George will get everything right ­he’s one of the plodding, persistent people who generally succeed in the end ­but what use will there be in that?  I’m not growing younger ­I want some enjoyment now!” She spread out her hands with a gesture that appealed for sympathy.  “One gets so tired of petty economy and self-denial.”

“But George and Herbert arranged that you should have a sufficient allowance.”

“Sufficient,” said Sylvia, “is a purely relative term.  So much depends upon one’s temperament, doesn’t it?  Perhaps I am a little extravagant, and that’s why I’m disappointed.”

“After all, you have very few necessary expenses.”

Sylvia laughed.

“It’s having only the necessary ones that makes it so dull.  Now, I’ve thought of going to stay a while with Susan Kettering; there’s a letter from her, asking when I’ll come.”

Mrs. Lansing was a lady of strict conventional views, and she showed some disapproval.

“But you can hardly make visits yet!”

“I don’t see why I can’t visit Susan.  She’s a relative, and it isn’t as if she were entertaining a number of people.  She says she’s very quiet; she has hardly asked anybody, only one or two intimate friends.”

“She’ll have three or four men down for the partridge shooting.”

“After all,” said Sylvia, “I can’t make her send them away.  You have once or twice had men from town here.”

“Susan leads a very different life from mine,” Mrs. Lansing persisted.  “She’s a little too fond of amusement, and I don’t approve of all her friends.”  She paused as an idea struck her.  “Is Captain Bland going there for the shooting?”

“I really can’t tell you.  Is there any reason why she shouldn’t invite him?”

Mrs. Lansing would have preferred that Sylvia should not see so much of Bland as she was likely to do if she stayed in the same house with him, though she knew of nothing in particular to his discredit.  He had served without distinction in two campaigns, he lived extravagantly, and was supposed to be something of a philanderer.  Indeed, not long ago, an announcement of his engagement to a lady of station had been confidently expected; but the affair had, for some unknown reason, suddenly fallen through.  Mrs. Lansing was puzzled about him.  If the man were looking for a wealthy wife, why should he be attracted, as she thought he was, by Sylvia, who had practically nothing.

“I’d really rather have you remain with us; but of course I can’t object to your going,” she said.

“I knew you would be nice about it,” Sylvia exclaimed.  “I must have a talk with Herbert; you said he would be home this evening.”

Lansing’s business occasionally prevented his nightly return from the nearest large town, but he arrived some hours later, and after dinner Sylvia found him in his smoking-room.  He looked up with a smile when she came in, for their relations were generally pleasant.  They understood each other, though this did not lead to mutual confidence or respect.

“Well?” he said.

Sylvia sat down in an easy chair, adopting, as she invariably did, a becoming pose, and handed him George’s letter.

“He hasn’t sent you very much,” Herbert remarked.

“No,” said Sylvia, “that’s the difficulty.”

“So I anticipated.  You’re not economical.”

Sylvia laughed.

“I won’t remind you of your failings.  You have one virtue ­you can be liberal when it suits you; and you’re my trustee.”

Lansing’s rather fleshy, smooth-shaven face grew thoughtful, but Sylvia continued: 

“I’m going to Susan’s, and I really need a lot of new clothes.”

“For a week or two’s visit?”

“I may, perhaps, go on somewhere else afterward.”

“I wonder whether you thought it necessary to tell Muriel so?”

Sylvia sighed.

“I’m afraid I didn’t.  I can hardly expect Muriel to quite understand or sympathize.  She has you, and the flowers she’s so fond of, and quiet friends of the kind she likes; while it’s so different with me.  Besides, I was never meant for retirement.”

“That,” laughed Lansing, “is very true.”

“Of course,” Sylvia went on; “I shall be very quiet, but there are things one really has to take part in.”

“Bridge is expensive unless you’re unusually lucky, or an excellent player,” Lansing suggested.  “However, it would be more to the purpose if you mentioned what is the least you could manage with.”

Sylvia told him, and he knit his brows.

“Money’s tight with me just now,” he objected.

“You know it’s only on account.  George will do ever so much better next year; and I dare say, if I pressed him, he would send another remittance.”

“His letter indicates that he’d find it difficult.”

“George wouldn’t mind that.  He rather likes doing things that are hard, and it’s comforting to think that self-denial doesn’t cost him much.  I’m thankful I have him to look after the farm.”

Lansing regarded her with ironical amusement; he knew what her gratitude was worth.

“Yes,” he agreed significantly, “George seldom expects anything for himself.  I’m afraid I’m different in that respect.”

Sylvia sat silent for a few moments, because she understood.  If Herbert granted the favor, he would look for something in return, though she had no idea what this would be.  She was conscious of a certain hesitation, but she did not allow it to influence her.

“I don’t doubt it,” she rejoined with a smile.  “Can’t you let me have a check?  That will make you my creditor, but I’m not afraid you’ll be very exacting.

“Well,” was the response, “I will see what I can do.”

She went out and Lansing filled his pipe with a feeling of satisfaction.  He was not running much risk in parting with the money, and Sylvia might prove useful by and by.

Sylvia left Brantholme shortly afterward and, somewhat to her annoyance, found Ethel West a guest at the house she visited.  Ethel had known Dick; she was a friend of George’s, and, no doubt, in regular communication with her brother in Canada.  It was possible that she might allude to Sylvia’s doings when she wrote; but there was some consolation in remembering that George was neither an imaginative nor a censorious person.

Sylvia had spent a delightful week in her new surroundings, when she descended the broad stairway one night with a shawl upon her arm and an elegantly bound little notebook in her hand.  A handsome, dark-haired man whose bearing proclaimed him a soldier walked at her side.  Bland’s glance was quick and direct, but he had a genial smile and his manners were usually characterized by a humorous boldness.  Still, it was difficult to find fault with them, and Sylvia had acquiesced in his rather marked preference for her society.  She was, however, studying the little book as she went down the shallow steps and her expression indicated dissatisfaction.

“I’m afraid it was my fault, though you had very bad luck,” said the man, noticing her look.  “I’m dreadfully sorry.”

“It was your fault,” Sylvia rejoined, with some petulance.  “When I held my best hand I was deceived by your lead.  Besides, as I told the others, I didn’t mean to play; you shouldn’t have come down and persuaded me.”

Bland considered.  On the whole Sylvia played a good game, but she was obviously a little out of practise, for his lead had really been the correct one, though she had not understood it.  This, however, was of no consequence; it was her concluding words that occupied his attention.  They had, he thought, been spoken with a full grasp of their significance; his companion was not likely to be guilty of any ill-considered admission.

“Then I’m flattered that my influence goes so far, though it’s perhaps unlucky in the present instance,” he said boldly.  “I’ll own that I’m responsible for our misfortunes and I’m ready to take the consequences.  Please give me that book.”

“No,” Sylvia replied severely.  “I feel guilty for playing at all, but the line must be drawn.”

“Where do you feel inclined to draw it?”

They had reached the hall and Sylvia turned and looked at him directly, but with a trace of coquetry.

“At allowing a comparative stranger to meet my losses, if I must be blunt.”

“The arrangement isn’t altogether unusual.  In this case, it’s a duty, and the restriction you make doesn’t bar me out.  I’m not a stranger.”

“A mere acquaintance then,” said Sylvia.

“That won’t do either.  It doesn’t apply to me.”

“Then I’ll have to alter the classification.”  She broke into a soft laugh.  “It’s difficult to think of a term to fit; would you like to suggest something?”

Several epithets occurred to the man, but he feared to make too rash a venture.

“Well,” he said, “would you object to ­confidential friend?”

Sylvia’s smile seemed to taunt him.

“Certainly; it goes too far.  One doesn’t become a confidential friend in a very limited time.”

“I’ve known it happen in a few days.”

“Friendships of that kind don’t last.  In a little while you find you have been deceived.  But we won’t talk of these things.  You can’t have the book, and I’m going out.”

He held up the shawl, which she draped about her shoulders, and they strolled on to the terrace.  The night was calm and pleasantly cool; beyond the black line of hedge across the lawn, meadows and harvest fields, with rows of sheaves that cast dark shadows behind them, stretched away in the moonlight.  After a while Sylvia stopped and leaned upon the broad-topped wall.

“It’s really pretty,” she remarked.

“Yes,” returned Bland; “it’s more than pretty.  There’s something in it that rests one.  I sometimes wish I could live in such a place as this altogether.”

Sylvia was astonished, because she saw he meant it.

“After your life, you would get horribly tired of it in three months.”

“After my life?  Do you know what that has been?”

“Race meetings, polo matches, hilarious mess dinners.”

He laughed, rather shortly.

“I suppose so; but they’re not the only army duties.  Some of the rest are better, abroad; but they’re frequently accompanied by semi-starvation, scorching heat or stinging cold, and fatigue; and it doesn’t seem to be the rule that those who bear the heaviest strain are remembered when promotion comes.”

Sylvia studied him attentively.  Bland was well and powerfully made, and she liked big men ­there was more satisfaction in bending them to her will.  In spite of his careless good-humor, he bore a certain stamp of distinction; he was an excellent card-player, he could dance exceptionally well, and she had heard him spoken of as a first-class shot.  It was unfortunate that these abilities were of less account in a military career than she had supposed; but, when properly applied, they carried their possessor some distance in other fields.  What was as much to the purpose, Bland appeared to be wealthy, and took a leading part in social amusements and activities.

“I suppose that is the case,” she said sympathetically, in answer to his last remark.  “You have never told me anything about your last campaign.  You were injured in it, were you not?”

The man had his weaknesses, but they did not include any desire to retail his exploits and sufferings to women’s ears.  He would not speak of his wounds, honorably received, or of perils faced as carelessly as he had exposed his men.

“Yes,” he answered.  “But that was bad enough at the time, and the rest of it would make a rather monotonous tale.”

“Surely not!” protested Sylvia.  “The thrill and bustle of a campaign must be wonderfully exciting.”

“The novelty of marching steadily in a blazing sun, drinking bad water, and shoveling trenches half the night, soon wears off,” he said with a short laugh, and changed the subject.  “One could imagine that you’re not fond of quietness.”

Sylvia shivered.  The memory of her two years in Canada could not be banished.  She looked back on them with something like horror.

“No,” she declared; “I hate it!  It’s deadly to me.”

“Well, I’ve an idea.  There’s the Dene Hall charity gymkana comes off in a few days.  It’s semi-private, and I know the people; in fact they’ve made me enter for some of the events.  It’s a pretty ride to the place, and I can get a good car.  Will you come?”

“I don’t know whether I ought,” said Sylvia, with some hesitation.

“Think over it, anyway,” he begged her.

One or two people came out, and when somebody called her name Sylvia left him, without promising.  Bland remained leaning on the wall and thinking hard.  Sylvia strongly attracted him.  She was daintily pretty, quick of comprehension, and, in spite of her black attire, which at times gave her a forlorn air that made him compassionate, altogether charming.  It was, however, unfortunate that he could not marry a poor wife, and he knew nothing about Sylvia’s means.  To do him justice, he had shrunk from any attempt to obtain information on this point; but he felt that it would have to be made before things went too far.  His thoughts were interrupted by Ethel West, who strolled along the terrace and stopped close at hand.

“I didn’t expect to find you wrapped in contemplation,” she remarked.

“As a matter of fact, I’ve been talking.”

“To Mrs. Marston?  She’s generally considered entertaining.”

Bland looked at her with a smile.  He liked Ethel West.  She was blunt, without being tactless, and her conversation was sometimes piquant.  Moreover, he remembered that Ethel and Sylvia were old acquaintances.

“I find her so,” he said.  “Though she has obviously had trouble, she’s very bright.  It’s a sign of courage.”

“In Sylvia Marston’s case, it’s largely a reaction.  She spent what she regards as two harrowing years in Canada.”

“After all, Canada doesn’t seem to be a bad place,” said Bland.  “Two of my friends, who left the Service, went out to take up land and they evidently like it.  They got lots of shooting, and they’ve started a pack of hounds.”

Ethel considered.  She could have told him that Sylvia’s husband had gone out to make a living, and had not been in a position to indulge in costly amusements, but this did not appear advisable.

“I don’t think Marston got a great deal of sport,” she said.  “He had too much to do.”

“A big place to look after?  I understand it’s wise to buy up all the land you can.”

Ethel’s idea of the man’s views in respect to Sylvia was confirmed.  He was obviously giving her a lead and she followed it, though she did not intend to enlighten him.

“Yes,” she answered; “that’s the opinion of my brother, who’s farming there.  He says values are bound to go up as the new railroads are built, and Marston had a good deal of land.  Sylvia is prudently keeping every acre and farming as much as possible.”

She saw this was satisfactory to Bland, and she had no hesitation in letting him conclude what he liked from it.  It was not her part to caution him, and it was possible that if no other suitor appeared, Sylvia might fall back on George, which was a risk that must be avoided at any cost.  Ethel did not expect to gain anything for herself; she knew that George had never had any love for her; but she was determined that he should not fall into Sylvia’s hands.  He was too fine a man, in many ways, to be thus sacrificed.

“But how can Mrs. Marston carry on the farm?” Bland inquired.

“I should have said her trustees are doing so,” Ethel answered carelessly.  “One of them went out to look into things not long ago.”

Then she moved away and left Bland with one difficulty that had troubled him removed.