“Do you really know him at all?” asked her father pointedly.

“Of course I do—­I know he’s very handsome, and awfully good-natured, and he’s given me the only good time I’ve had at the University.  You just don’t know how ghastly last year was to me!  I’m awfully grateful to Jerry, and that’s all there is to it!”

Before this second disclaimer, her parents were silent again, Sylvia looking down at her lap, picking at her fingers.  Her expression was that of a naughty child—­that is, with a considerable admixture of unhappiness in her wilfulness.

By this time Professor Marshall’s expression was clearly one of downright anger, controlled by violent effort.  Mrs. Marshall was the first one to speak.  She went over to Sylvia and laid her hand on her shoulder.  “Well, Sylvia dear, I’m sorry about—­” She stopped and began again.  “You know, dear, that we always believed in letting our children, as far as possible, make their own decisions, and we won’t go back on that now.  But I want you to understand that that puts a bigger responsibility on you than on most girls to make the right decisions.  We trust you—­your good sense and right feeling—­to keep you from being carried away by unworthy motives into a false position.  And, what’s just as important, we trust to your being clear-headed enough to see what your motives really are.”

“I don’t see,” began Sylvia, half crying, “why something horrid should come up just because I want a good time—­other girls don’t have to be all the time so solemn, and thinking about things!”

“There’d be more happy women if they did,” remarked Mrs. Marshall, adding:  “I don’t believe we’d better talk any more about this now.  You know how we feel, and you must take that into consideration.  You think it over.”

She spoke apparently with her usual calmness, but as she finished she put her arms about the girl’s neck and kissed the flushed cheeks.  Caresses from Mrs. Marshall were unusual, and, even through her tense effort to resist, Sylvia was touched.  “You’re just worrying about nothing at all, Mother,” she said, trying to speak lightly, but escaped from a possible rejoinder by hurriedly gathering up her text-books and following Judith and Lawrence upstairs.

Her father and mother confronted each other. “Well!” said Professor Marshall hotly, “of all the weak, inconclusive, modern parents—­is this what we’ve come to?”

Mrs. Marshall took up her sewing and said in the tone which always quelled her husband, “Yes, this is what we’ve come to.”

His heat abated at once, though he went on combatively, “Oh, I know what you mean, reasonable authority and not tyranny and all that—­yes, I believe in it—­of course—­but this goes beyond—­” he ended.  “Is there or is there not such a thing as parental authority?”

Mrs. Marshall answered with apparent irrelevance, “You remember what Cavour said?”