Part 32 (1/2)

She was startled at this abrupt emergence of the name which secretly filled her mind and was aware with exasperation that she was blus.h.i.+ng.

Her companion appeared not to notice this. He was attempting the difficult feat of wiping his face on the upper part of his sleeve, and said in the intervals of effort: ”Well, you know _my_ name. Molly didn't forget that.”

”But _I_ did,” Sylvia confessed. ”I was so excited by the fire I never noticed at all. I've been racking my brains to remember, all the way up here.”

For some reason the man seemed quite struck with this statement and eyed her with keenness as he said: ”Oh--really? Well, my name is Austin Page.” At the candid blankness of her face he showed a boyish flash of white teeth in a tanned face. ”Do you mean to say you've never heard of me?”

”_Should_ I?” said Sylvia, with a graceful pretense of alarm. ”Do you write, or something? Lay it to my ignorance. It's immense.”

He shook his head. He smiled down on her. She noticed now that his eyes were very kind as well as clear and keen. ”No, I don't write, or anything. There's no reason why you should ever have heard of me. I only thought--I thought possibly Molly or Uncle George might have happened to mention me.”

”I'm only on from the West for a visit,” explained Sylvia. ”I never was in Lydford before. I don't know the people there.”

”Well then, to avoid Morrison's strictures on introductions I'll add to my name the information that I am thirty-two years old; a graduate of Columbia University; that I have some property in Colorado which gives me a great deal of trouble; and a farm with a wood lot in Vermont which is the joy of my heart. I cannot endure politics; I play the flute, like my eggs boiled three minutes, and admire George Meredith.”

His manoeuvers with his sleeve were so preposterous that Sylvia now cried to him: ”Oh, don't twist around that way. You'll give yourself a crick in the neck. Here's my handkerchief. We were going to share that, anyhow.”

”And you,” he went on gravely, wiping his face with the bit of cambric, ”are Sylvia Marshall, presumably Miss; you can laugh at a joke on yourself; are not afraid to wash your face with kitchen soap; and apparently are the only girl in the twentieth century who has not a mirror and a powder-puff concealed about her person.”

All approbation was sweet to Sylvia. She basked in this. ”Oh, I'm a Hottentot, a savage from the West, as I told you,” she said complacently.

”You've been in Lydford long enough to hear Morrison hold forth on the idiocies of social convention, the while he neatly manipulates them to his own advantage.”

Sylvia had dreaded having to speak of Morrison, but she was now greatly encouraged by the entire success of her casual tone, as she explained, ”Oh, he's an old friend of my aunt's, and he's been at the house a good deal.” She ventured to try herself further, and inquired with a bright look of interest, ”What do you think of his engagement to your cousin Molly?”

He was petrified with astonishment. ”_Molly_ engaged to _Morrison_!”

he cried. ”We can't be talking about the same people. I mean _Felix_ Morrison the critic.”

She felt vindicated by his stupefaction and liked him for it. ”Why, yes; hadn't you heard?” she asked, with an a.s.sumption of herself seeing nothing surprising in the news.

”No, I hadn't, and I can't believe it now!” he said, blinking his eyes. ”I never heard such an insane combination of names in my life.”

He went on, ”What under the _sun_ does Molly want of Morrison!”

Sylvia was vexed with him for this unexpected view. He was not so discerning as she had thought. She turned away and picked up her hat.

”We ought to be going on,” she said, and as they walked she answered, ”You don't seem to have a very high opinion of Mr. Morrison.”

He protested with energy. ”Oh yes, I have. Quite the contrary, I think him one of the most remarkable men I know, and one of the finest. I admire him immensely. I'd trust his taste sooner than I would my own.”

To this handsome tribute Sylvia returned, smiling, ”The inference is that you don't think much of Molly.”

”I _know_ Molly!” he said simply. ”I've known her and loved her ever since she was a hot-tempered, imperious little girl--which is all she is now. Engaged ... and engaged to Morrison! It's a plain case of schoolgirl infatuation!” He was lost in wonder, uneasy wonder it seemed, for after a period of musing he brought out: ”They'll cut each other's throats inside six months. Or Molly'll cut her own. What under the sun was her grandfather thinking of?”

Sylvia said gravely, ”Girls' grandfathers have such an influence in their marriages.”

He smiled a rueful recognition of the justice of her thrust and then fell into silence.

The road did not climb up now, but led along the side of the mountain.

Through the dense woods the sky-line, first guessed at, then clearly seen between the thick-standing tree-trunks, sank lower and lower.