“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 assumption 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.