Of course all this paraphernalia belonged to the festival, and yet Bradford was not prepared to find Sylvia living in such daily state as the other surroundings implied.  He knew that she belonged to a prosperous family, but his entrance to what he supposed would be, as the name implied, a country cottage, was a decided shock to him.

He had been drawn irresistibly toward Sylvia almost from their meeting in the lecture room several years before, but he could hardly allow himself the luxury of day dreams then, and it was not until his promotion had seemed to him to place him upon a safe footing, that he had paused long enough to realize how completely she was woven into all his thoughts of the future.  Now, as he waited there, a broad gulf, not a crossable river, seemed to stretch before him, not alone financial but ethical,—­a sweeping troublous torrent, the force of which he could neither stem nor even explain to himself,—­verily the surging of the Whirlpool at his feet.

Babbling girlish voices waked him from his revery, and half a dozen young figures, disguised in handsomely embroidered Japanese costumes and headgear, their eyes given the typical almond-shaped and upward slant by means of paint and pencil, came down the stairs, followed a moment later by a taller figure in still richer robes, and so carefully made up by powder and paint that at a distance she looked but little older than the girls.  Coming toward Bradford with an expression of playful inquiry, she said:  “Is this Mr. Bradford?  I am Mrs. Latham.  Did you wish to see me?  I’ve only a moment to spare, for at three o’clock I lose my identity and become a Geisha girl.”

Bradford was embarrassed for a moment, even quite disconcerted.  Why should he have taken it for granted that Sylvia had spoken of him, and that he should be known to her mother?  But such was the case, and he felt bitterly humbled.

“I was one of Miss Latham’s instructors at Rockcliffe two years ago.  I have returned now to spend the vacation with my mother, whom perhaps you know, at Pine Ridge, and finding that you have come to live here—­I—­ventured to call.”  If poor Bradford had desired to be stiff and uninterestingly didactic, he could not have succeeded better.

“Ah, yes—­Rockcliffe—­Sylvia was there for a couple of years, and will doubtless be glad to hear of the place.  I myself never approved of college life for girls, it makes them so superior and offish when they return to society.  Even two years abroad have not put Sylvia completely at her ease among us again.

“We do not live here; this is merely a between-season roost, and we leave again next week, so I have not met your mother.  The only one of the name I recollect is an old country egg woman back somewhere in the hills toward Pine Ridge.  You will find Sylvia at Mrs. Jenks-Smith’s, just above, at the rose booth.  Pardon me if I leave you now, I have so much on my hands this afternoon.”