Sylvia shivered. The memory of her two years in Canada could not be banished. She looked back on them with something like horror.
"No," she declared; "I hate it! It's deadly to me."
"Well, I've an idea. There's the Dene Hall charity gymkana comes off in a few days. It's semi-private, and I know the people; in fact they've made me enter for some of the events. It's a pretty ride to the place, and I can get a good car. Will you come?"
"I don't know whether I ought," said Sylvia, with some hesitation.
"Think over it, anyway," he begged her.
One or two people came out, and when somebody called her name Sylvia left him, without promising. Bland remained leaning on the wall and thinking hard. Sylvia strongly attracted him. She was daintily pretty, quick of comprehension, and, in spite of her black attire, which at times gave her a forlorn air that made him compassionate, altogether charming. It was, however, unfortunate that he could not marry a poor wife, and he knew nothing about Sylvia's means. To do him justice, he had shrunk from any attempt to obtain information on this point; but he felt that it would have to be made before things went too far. His thoughts were interrupted by Ethel West, who strolled along the terrace and stopped close at hand.
"I didn't expect to find you wrapped in contemplation," she remarked.
"As a matter of fact, I've been talking."
"To Mrs. Marston? She's generally considered entertaining."
Bland looked at her with a smile. He liked Ethel West. She was blunt, without being tactless, and her conversation was sometimes piquant. Moreover, he remembered that Ethel and Sylvia were old acquaintances.