e to him only when she couldn't
possibly avoid it, glancing, George noticed, at Dalrymple who rather
pointedly kept away from her. So far so good. Then Dalrymple did realize
George would have his way. George looked at Sylvia, thinking
whimsically:

"I shan't let anybody put you where you wouldn't bother to hate me any
more."

He spoke to her aloud.

"I believe we're to have a bite to eat."

She followed him reluctantly, and during the supper yielded of herself
nothing whatever to him, chatting by preference with any one convenient,
even with Blodgett whom she had treated so shabbily. Very early she left
the room with Betty and Mrs. Alston, and George experienced a strong
desire to escape also, to flee anywhere away from this house and the
bitter dissatisfactions he had found within its familiar walls. He saw
Mrs. Bailly and took her hand.

"I want to go home with you and Squibs to-night."

Mrs. Bailly smiled her gratitude, but as he was about to move away she
stopped him with a curiosity he had not expected from her.

"Isn't Sylvia Planter beautiful? Why do you suppose she doesn't marry?"

George laughed shortly, shook his head, and hurried upstairs to
Lambert's room; yet Mrs. Bailly had increased his uneasiness. Perhaps it
was the too-frequent repetition of that question that had made Sylvia
turn temporarily to Blodgett; that was, possibly, focussing her eyes on
Dalrymple now; yet why, from such a field, did she choose these men?
What was one to make of her mind and its unexpected reactions? The
matter of marriage was, not unnaturally, in the air here. Lambert faced
him with it.

"Josiah's right. When are you going to make a home, Apollo Morton?"

George turned on him angrily, not bothering to choose his words.

"Such a question from you is ridiculous. You've not forgotten the dark
ages either."

Lambert looked at him for a moment affectionately, not without sympathy.

"Don't be an ass, George."

George's laughter was impatient.

"Don't forget, Lambert, your old friends, Corporal Sol Roseberg, and
Bugler Ignatius Chronos. No men better! Chairs at the club! Legs under
the table at Oakmont----"

Lambert put his hands on George's shoulders.

"It isn't that at all. You know it very well."

"What is it then?" George asked, sharply.

"Don't pretend ignorance," Lambert answered, "and it must be your own
fault. Whose else could it possibly be? And I'm sorry, have been for
years."

"It isn't my fault,