felt utterly out of tune with all gaiety. But she could think of
no decent excuse for remaining away. And she was still buoying
herself up with the thought that Guy's silence could not last much
longer. She was bound to hear from him soon.

She went to the Ball, therefore, feeling tired and dispirited, and
looking quite _passee_, as her step-mother several times assured
her.

She had endured a long harangue upon jealousy that evening, which
vice Mrs. Ingleton declared she was allowing to embitter her whole
life, and she was weary to death of the subject and the penetrating
voice that had discoursed upon it. Once or twice she had been
stung into some biting rejoinder, but for the most part she had
borne the lecture in silence. After all, what did it matter? What
did it matter?

They reached the Town Hall and went up the carpeted steps.
Preston, in hunting pink, received them. He captured Sylvia's hand
and pressed it tight against his heart.

She stared at him with wide unsmiling eyes. "Seen the local rag?"
he asked, as he grinned amorously into them. "There's something to
interest you in it. Our local prophet has been at work."

She did not know what he meant, or feel sufficiently interested to
inquire. She pulled her hand free, and passed on. His familiarity
became more marked and more insufferable every time she encountered
him. But still she asked herself again, what did it matter?