Sylvia was sitting by the hearth in Ethel West’s drawing-room, her neatly shod feet on the fender, her low chair on the fleecy rug, and she made a very dainty and attractive picture.  She felt the cold and hated discomfort of any kind, though it was characteristic of her that she generally succeeded in avoiding it.  Ethel sat near by, watching her with calmly curious eyes, for Sylvia was looking pensive.  Mrs. Lansing was talking to Stephen West on the opposite side of the large room.

“How is Edgar getting on?” Sylvia asked.  “I suppose you hear from him now and then.”

Ethel guessed where the question led and responded with blunt directness.

“Doesn’t George write to you?”

“Not often.  Herbert has just got a letter, but there was very little information in it; George is not a brilliant correspondent.  I thought Edgar might have written by the same mail.”

“As it happens, he did,” said Ethel.  “He describes the cold as fierce, and gives some interesting details of his sensations when the warmth first comes back to his half-frozen hands or limbs; then he adds a vivid account of a blizzard that George and he nearly got lost in.”

“Things of that kind make an impression on a new-comer,” Sylvia languidly remarked.  “One gets used to them after a while.  Did he say anything else?”

“There was an enthusiastic description of a girl he has met; he declares she’s a paragon.  This, of course, is nothing new, but it’s a little astonishing that he doesn’t seem to contemplate making love to her in his usual haphazard manner.  She seems to have inspired him with genuine respect.”

“I can’t think of any girl who’s likely to do so.”

“He gives her name ­Flora Grant.”

Sylvia betrayed some interest.

“I knew her ­I suppose she is a little less impossible than the rest.  But go on.”

“One gathers that George is having an anxious time; Edgar goes into some obscure details about crops and cattle-raising.  Then he hints at some exciting adventures they have had as a result of supporting a body that’s trying to close the hotels.”

This was what Sylvia had been leading up to.  She agreed with Herbert that it was most unlikely George would take any part in such proceedings without some prompting, and she was curious to learn who had influenced him.

“There was a word or two in Herbert’s letter to the same effect,” she said.  “The thing strikes one as amusing.  George, of course, does not explain why he joined these people.”

A smile of rather malicious satisfaction crept into Ethel’s eyes.  “According to Edgar, it was because his neighbors, the Grants, urged it.  The father of the girl he mentioned seems to be a leader in the movement.”

Sylvia carefully suppressed any sign of the annoyance she felt.  It was, of course, impossible that George should be seriously attracted by Flora, but his action implied that he and the Grants must be good friends.  No doubt, he met the girl every now and then, and they had much in common.  Sylvia did not mean to marry George; but it was pleasant to feel that she could count on his devotion, and she resented the idea of his falling under the influence of anybody else.  She had never thought of Flora as dangerous ­George was so steadfast ­but she now realized that there might, perhaps, be some slight risk.  A girl situated as Flora was would, no doubt, make the most of her opportunities.  Sylvia grew somewhat angry; she felt she was being badly treated.

“After all,” she said calmly, “I suppose there’s no reason why George shouldn’t set up as a reformer if it pleases him.  It must, however, be rather a novelty for your brother.”

Ethel laughed.

“I believe it’s the excitement that has tempted him, Still, if George is taking any active part in the matter, Edgar will probably find it more than a light diversion.”  Then she changed the subject.  “Did I tell you that we expect Captain Bland to-night?”

Sylvia started slightly.  She was aware that Ethel took what could best be described as an unsympathetic interest in her affairs, but the sudden reference to Bland threw her off her guard.

“No,” she said.  “Though you have met him, I didn’t think you knew him well.”

“I believe it’s chiefly a business visit.  Stephen, you know, has some reputation as a commercial lawyer, and Bland couldn’t arrange to see him in town.  Anyway, he should be here soon.”

Bland arrived half an hour later, but was unable to do more than shake hands with Sylvia before West took him away to another room.  It was some time before they returned; and then West kept the party engaged in general conversation until it broke up.

“I’ll walk down the road with you,” he said to Mrs. Lansing, and afterward turned to Bland.  “How are you going to get back?”

Bland said that the man who had driven him from the station was waiting in the neighboring village, and when they left the house he walked on with Sylvia, leaving Mrs. Lansing and West to follow.  It was a clear night, with a chill of frost in the air.  A bright half-moon hung above the shadowy hills, and the higher boughs of the bare trees cut in sharp tracery against the sky.  Dead leaves lay thick upon the road and here and there a belt of mist trailed across a meadow.  Sylvia, however, did not respond when her companion said something about the charm of the walk.

“Why didn’t you send me word you were coming?” she asked.

“I didn’t know until this morning, when I got a note from West, and I must be back in time for tomorrow’s parade.  Besides, you told me at the junction that I was not to be allowed to meet you again for some time.”

Sylvia smiled at him.

“Haven’t you found out that you needn’t take everything I say too literally?”

Bland stopped, pressing the hand on his arm.

“Does that apply to all you said on the evening when we sat outside the inn?”

“No,” answered Sylvia firmly.  “It does not; please understand that.  I must stick to what I told you then.”  She paused, and they heard the soft fall of approaching feet before she resumed with a laugh:  “Go on, if you don’t want the others to think we are waiting for them.”

Bland obeyed, a little soothed, though he saw she was not yet ready to allow a renewal of his pleading.  Sylvia had obviously meant that she wished to be left alone with him.

“Why did you call on Stephen West?” she asked, presently.

“I’d meant to tell you.  But, first of all, is Lansing still connected with the rubber company?  West didn’t seem very well informed upon the point.”

“Neither am I,” replied Sylvia thoughtfully.  “I only know he hasn’t the large interest in it that he had.”

“Then I’ll have to explain, because I don’t know what to do.  Lansing gave me a tip to buy some shares, and when some friends said I’d got a good thing, I went to him again.  I must say he was pretty guarded, but I got a hint and acted on it, with the result that I have dropped a good deal of money.  This,” he added deprecatingly, “is not the kind of thing I should talk to you about, but I was told that Lansing couldn’t receive any callers, and you’ll see why you should know.”

“I’m beginning to understand.”

“Well,” said Bland, “shortly after Lansing’s accident, I wrote to the secretary, asking some questions, and he doesn’t seem to have been cautious enough in his answer ­I have it here.  There has been trouble about the company, and I attended a meeting of some disgusted people who had put their money into it.  They think they might get part of it back by attacking the promoters, and I’m told that my letter would help them materially.”

“Do you want to help them?”

“In a way, it’s natural,” said Bland with signs of warmth.  “I don’t see why those fellows should be allowed to get off after tricking people out of the money they’ve painfully earned.”

“How much money have you ever earned?”

Bland laughed.

“You have me there; I haven’t been able to buy shares out of my pay.  But I made a pot by taking long chances when I backed an outside horse.  It comes to much the same thing.”

“I don’t think it does,” said Sylvia, with a smile.  “But it strikes me that your explanation isn’t quite complete.”

“I went to West, instead of to another lawyer, because I thought he would be acquainted with Lansing’s present position; but, while he agreed that the letter might be valuable to the objectors, he couldn’t help me.  The end of it is that I don’t want to do anything that might hurt Lansing.”

Sylvia reflected.  She hardly thought his loss would seriously embarrass Bland; she owed Herbert something and might need his aid, and she did not wish any discredit to be cast upon a connection of hers.

“Well,” she said, “I believe Herbert is still to some extent connected with the company; he can hardly have withdrawn altogether.  Anyway, he had a large interest in it, and I think its management was in his hands.  He might suffer, so to speak, retrospectively.”

“Yes,” said Bland, “that didn’t strike me.  You’re right; there’s only one course open.”  He took a paper from his pocket and handed it to her.  “Give that to Lansing, and tell him he may do what he thinks fit with it.”

“You’re very generous,” said Sylvia, coloring as she took the letter.

“I’m afraid I’ve behaved badly in not keeping the thing from you; but you see how I was situated, and you’ll have to forgive me.”

“That isn’t difficult,” Sylvia told him.

They walked on in silence for a while; and then Bland looked around at her.

“There’s a thing I must mention.  I’ve had a hint to ask for a certain post abroad.  It is not a very desirable one in some respects, but the pay’s pretty good, and it would bring the man who took it under the notice of people who arrange the better Government appointments.  I should have to stay out at least two years.”

Sylvia was startled, and annoyed.  Now that the man owned her sway, she did not mean to accede to his wishes too readily.  Some obscure reason made her shrink from definitely binding herself to him, but his intimation had forced on something of the nature of a crisis.

“Do you wish to go?” she asked.

“No,” he said hotly; “you know that.”

“Then,” said Sylvia softly, “I think you had better stay at home.”

He stopped again and faced her.

“You must tell me what you mean!”

“It ought to be clear,” she murmured, “Don’t you think I should miss you?”

With restrained quietness he laid his hand on her shoulder.

“You must listen for a minute, Sylvia.  Up to the present, I’ve been passed over by the authorities; but now I’ve been given my chance.  If I can hammer the raw native levies into shape and keep order along a disturbed frontier, it will lead to something better.  Now, I’m neither a military genius nor altogether a careless idler ­I believe I can do this work; but, coming rather late, it has less attraction for me.  Well, I would let the chance slip, for one reason only; but if I’m to go on continually repressing myself and only allowed to see you at long intervals, I might as well go away.  You must clearly understand on what terms I remain.”

She made a little appealing gesture.

“Yes,” she said; “but you must wait and not press me too hard.  I am so fenced in by conventions; so many people’s susceptibilities have to be considered.  I haven’t a girl’s liberty.”

Bland supposed this was as far as she ventured in allusion to her widowed state; but, stirred as he was by her implied submission, it struck him as significant that she should so clearly recognize the restrictions conventionality imposed on her.

“I think,” he returned, “the two people who deserve most consideration are you and myself.”

“Ah!” said Sylvia, “you deserve it most.  You have been very forbearing; you have done all I asked.  That is why I know you will bear with a little delay, when it’s needful.”

He made a sign of reluctant assent; and then, to his annoyance, two figures emerged from the shadow of the trees not far away.  There was nothing to do except to move on, but he thrilled at the slight, grateful pressure of Sylvia’s hand upon his arm.

“My dear,” he said, “I wish most devoutly that West or Mrs. Lansing had been lame.”

Sylvia broke into a ripple of laughter, which somehow seemed to draw them closer.  At Herbert’s gate they separated, and Bland walked on in an exultant mood which was broken by fits of thoughtfulness.  Sylvia had tacitly pledged herself to him, but he was still her unacknowledged lover and the position was irksome.  Then he remembered her collectedness, which had been rather marked, but he had learned that emotion is more frequently concealed than forcibly expressed.  Moreover, he had never imagined that Sylvia was wholly free from faults; he suspected that there was a vein of calculating coldness in her, though it caused him no concern.  Bland was a man of experience who had acquired a good-humored toleration with the knowledge that one must not expect too much from human nature.

While Bland was being driven to the station, Sylvia entered the room where Herbert lay, and handed him the letter.

“Captain Bland came in during the evening to see Stephen and sent you this,” she said.  “He told me you were to do what you thought fit with it.”

Herbert perused the letter, and then reaching out with some difficulty, flung it into the fire.

“I’ve taken him at his word,” he said.  “Have you read the thing?”

“No; I fear the details would have puzzled me; but I understand its general import.  How was it your secretary was so careless?”

Herbert smiled.

“The man’s smart enough, as a rule; but we all have our weak moments.  This, however, is not the kind of thing that’s likely to lead to his advancement.”  He lay quiet for a moment or two; and then went on:  “I’m grateful to you.  Had you much trouble in persuading Bland to let you have the letter?”

“No; he offered it voluntarily.”

“Then the man must have been desperately anxious to please you.  It looks as if his condition were getting serious.”

“I resent coarseness,” exclaimed Sylvia.

Herbert laughed.

“Oh,” he said, “you and I can face the truth.  As West’s a lawyer, Bland’s visit to him is, of course, significant; the man knew that letter might have been worth something in hard cash to him, as well as affording him the satisfaction of making things hot for the directors of the company, among whom I was included.  He would hardly have parted with it unless he had a strong inducement.”

“His motives don’t concern you,” retorted Sylvia.

“You ought to appreciate his action.”

“I appreciate it as sincerely as I do yours, because you must have shown that you didn’t want him to use the letter, though I’m inclined to think your motives were rather mixed; one could scarcely expect them all to be purely benevolent.”

Sylvia smiled.  He was keen-witted and she found something amusing in the ironical good-humor which often characterized him.

“Anyhow,” he continued, “you’re a staunch and capable ally, and as that gives you a claim on me, you won’t find me reluctant to do my part whenever the time comes.”

Then Mrs. Lansing came in, and on the whole Sylvia was glad of the interruption.  Herbert’s remarks were now and then unpleasantly suggestive.  He had called her his ally, but she felt more like his accomplice, which was much less flattering.