"We have splendid pictures in Burlington," he announced, "but this is
good for a place of this size, isn't it, Sylvia?"

"Yes. Don't talk so loudly."

"I can't talk any softer and have you hear unless I put my head up
closer. Can I?"

"Of course, you may not. Don't be so silly."

"I didn't mean to be fresh. You're not cross, are you, Sylvia?"

It seemed to her as if the "show" would never end. Chagrin and resentment
overcame her. What had possessed her to come to this hot, stuffy place
with Thomas, instead of reading French in her peaceful, pleasant
sitting-room with Austin? Why didn't Austin show more eagerness to be
with her, anyway? She liked to be with him--ever and ever so much--didn't
see half so much of him as she wanted to. There was no use beating about
the bush. It was perfectly true. She was growing fonder of him, and more
dependent on him, every day. And every other man she had ever known had
been grateful for her least favor, while he--Her hurt pride seemed to
stifle her. She was very close to tears. She was jerked back to composure
by the happy voice of Thomas.

"My, but that was a thriller! Come on over to the drug-store, Sylvia, and
have an ice-cream cone."

"I'm not hungry," said Sylvia, rising, "and it must be getting awfully
late. I'd rather go straight home."