You ungracious little thing! There is a good-by kiss to show you that I
always hold out the right hand of peace."

"Have the carriage, Sylvie: it will not take a moment"--

"No, thank you," in a crisp tone. She would have nothing of these
Lawrences just now.

"Fred will get a spicy wife," commented Irene, with a peculiar smile.

"She is never so with him. They get along beautifully," said the mother.

"Fred is too lazy to rouse Sylvie. Women have quite spoiled him. And
Sylvie is ever so much prettier when a trifle vexed. Don't tell me about
her angelic qualities, though I suppose she does keep super-amiable
before you and Fred just now. I wonder if I could if I were in love!"

"Irene, I am sorry I hinted it. If you begin to tease Fred"--

"I shall not: set your heart at rest. I give full and free consent, and
approve heartily. Beside, the little thing might throw herself away if
she was not looked after. There will always be some one to stay at home
with you."

Mrs. Lawrence turned to her book and her nectarines; and Irene tumbled
over jewel-cases,--a proud, imperious beauty, whose heart had never been
touched, who cared only for pleasure and triumphs. Over yonder, men and
women were toiling, that she might have gold to squander. They lived
scantily, that she might feast. And the brave old world, seeing it all,
uttered a silent groan. One day it would speak out.

CHAPTER VI.

SYLVIE BARRY meanwhile walked along rather rapidly for a warm morning.
She felt irritated. Her sweet lips were set in defiant curves, the red
heats of annoyance burned and faded on her cheek with each passing
thought, and there was something out of harmony: a fateful discordance
that swept over her, as if the parts of music had been wrongly put
together.

Did they think--did Fred imagine--

She had never faced the idea before. Now she thrust it out in the garish
sunlight. Her eyes sparkled, but there was no triumph in the girl's
fine, resolute face. This man might lay his father's wealth at her feet,
borrowed plumes in which he was quite content to shine; his heart--and a
smile of withering scorn crossed her red lips. She would be a little
dearer than his horse: dogs the fastidious man could not endure.
Practically his wooing would be,--

"I will love thee--half a year,
As a man is able."

Not because of a fresher, fairer face: he would give her all he had, all
that he could rouse his languid pulse