Grace Ferrall came into the room and found a duel of silence in progress under the dull fire-glow tinting the ceiling.
"Another quarrel," she commented, turning on the current of the drop-light above the desk from which Siward had risen at her entrance. "You quarrel enough to marry. Why don't you?"
"I wish we could," said Sylvia simply.
Grace laughed. "What a little fool you are!" she said tenderly, seating herself in Siward's chair and dropping one hand over his where it rested on the arm. "Stephen, can't you make her--a big, strong fellow like you? Oh, well; on your heads be it! My conscience is now clear for the first time, and I'll never meddle again." She gave Siward's hand a perfunctory pat and released him with a discreetly stifled yawn. "I'm disgracefully sleepy; the wind blew like fury along the coast. Sylvia, have you had a good time at Shotover--the time of your life?"
Sylvia raised her eyes and encountered Siward's.
"I certainly have," she said faintly.
"C'est bien, chérie. Can you be as civil, Stephen--conscientiously? Oh, that is very nice of you! But there's one thing: why on earth didn't you make eyes at Marion? Life might be one long, blissful carnival of horse and dog for you both. Oh, dear! there, I'm meddling again! Pinch me, Sylvia, if I ever begin to meddle again! How did you come out at Bridge, Stephen? What--bad as that? Gracious! this is disgraceful--this gambling the way people do! I'm shocked and I'm going up to dress. Are you coming, Sylvia?"
The dinner was very gay. The ceremony of christening the Shotover Cup, which Quarrier had won, proceeded with presentation speech and a speech of acceptance faultlessly commonplace, during which Quarrier wore his smile--which was the only humorous thing he contributed.
The cup was full. Siward eyed it, perplexed, deadly afraid, yet seeing no avenue of escape from what must appear a public exhibition of contempt for Quarrier if he refused to taste its contents. That meant a bad night for him; yet he shrank more from the certain misinterpretation of a refusal to drink from the huge loving-cup with its heavy wreath of scented orchids, now already on its way toward him, than he feared the waking struggle so sure to follow.
Marion received the cup, lifted it in both hands, and said distinctly, "Good Hunting!" as she drank to Quarrier. Her brother Gordon took it, and drank entirely too much. Then Sylvia lifted it, her white hands half buried among the orchids: "To you!" she murmured for Siward's ear alone; then drank gaily, mischievously, "To the best shot at Shotover!" And Siward took the cup: "I salute victory," he said, smiling, "always, and everywhere! To him who takes the fighting chance and wins out! To the best man! Health!" And he drank as a gentleman drinks, with a gay bow to Quarrier, and with death in his heart.