"Yes," he agreed significantly, "George seldom expects anything for himself. I'm afraid I'm different in that respect."
Sylvia sat silent for a few moments, because she understood. If Herbert granted the favor, he would look for something in return, though she had no idea what this would be. She was conscious of a certain hesitation, but she did not allow it to influence her.
"I don't doubt it," she rejoined with a smile. "Can't you let me have a check? That will make you my creditor, but I'm not afraid you'll be very exacting.
"Well," was the response, "I will see what I can do."
She went out and Lansing filled his pipe with a feeling of satisfaction. He was not running much risk in parting with the money, and Sylvia might prove useful by and by.
Sylvia left Brantholme shortly afterward and, somewhat to her annoyance, found Ethel West a guest at the house she visited. Ethel had known Dick; she was a friend of George's, and, no doubt, in regular communication with her brother in Canada. It was possible that she might allude to Sylvia's doings when she wrote; but there was some consolation in remembering that George was neither an imaginative nor a censorious person.
Sylvia had spent a delightful week in her new surroundings, when she descended the broad stairway one night with a shawl upon her arm and an elegantly bound little notebook in her hand. A handsome, dark-haired man whose bearing proclaimed him a soldier walked at her side. Bland's glance was quick and direct, but he had a genial smile and his manners were usually characterized by a humorous boldness. Still, it was difficult to find fault with them, and Sylvia had acquiesced in his rather marked preference for her society. She was, however, studying the little book as she went down the shallow steps and her expression indicated dissatisfaction.
"I'm afraid it was my fault, though you had very bad luck," said the man, noticing her look. "I'm dreadfully sorry."
"It was your fault," Sylvia rejoined, with some petulance. "When I held my best hand I was deceived by your lead. Besides, as I told the others, I didn't mean to play; you shouldn't have come down and persuaded me."
Bland considered. On the whole Sylvia played a good game, but she was obviously a little out of practise, for his lead had really been the correct one, though she had not understood it. This, however, was of no consequence; it was her concluding words that occupied his attention. They had, he thought, been spoken with a full grasp of their significance; his companion was not likely to be guilty of any ill-considered admission.