duty to me is done. You and Mr. Dunham can go home now." Miss Martha's eyes snapped behind her glasses. "What do you mean? What are you going to do, then?" The girl shrugged her shoulders carelessly. "Any one of half a dozen things. Get married, probably." Miss Martha stared. "Are you engaged all this time and we worrying ourselves like this?" "No, but a man, an actor, wants me to marry him. He believes I would do well on the stage." "Sylvia Lacey, you mustn't marry an actor. You mustn't consider such a thing!" The speaker sprang to her feet and took a step forward. "I haven't until now,"—Sylvia's white cheeks gave the lie to her nonchalant tone,—"but father said he believed Nat would be good to me. I thought it very strange at the time, but he seemed much more certain that Nat would be kind than that you and Uncle Calvin would." "Sylvia, you mustn't be willful. You're a young girl. You must let your uncle and me think for you. I am going to remain with you until I see you moved. You can't stay in this hotel alone, not a day." Miss Martha glanced about as if she expected to see some of her brother's disreputable friends leap up from behind the stuffy old armchairs. "Go at once, please," returned the girl. "Won't you take her?" suddenly turning to Dunham appealingly. "I'm very tired." He did not need to be convinced of it. The white face showed the nervous strain. He believed the short curls meant some recent illness. He wished himself a thousand miles away, and took a final grip on the hat he was holding. "We're unwilling to leave you in such uncertainty," he said lamely. Sylvia's eyes rested on his. "Tell Uncle Calvin"—she paused, for her throat filled—"no," she added with difficulty, "just go, please." "Sylvia, I beg of you," Miss Lacey came forward, face and voice perturbed, and attempted to take her niece's hand. Sylvia fell back a step. "You said everything a few minutes ago, Aunt Martha. Nothing could make any difference now. Good-by. Go, or else I must."
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