The waiting, the knowledge which had come to her during the last few
days, had told their tale. She had the look which Chayne too well
remembered, the dark shadows beneath her eyes, the languor in her walk,
the pallor in her cheeks, the distress and shame in her expression.
"Sit down," he said; and she obeyed him reluctantly, seating herself over
against him. She gazed at the table-cloth with that mutinous look upon
her face which took away from her her womanhood and gave to her the
aspect of a pretty but resentful child. Garratt Skinner for the life of
him could not but smile at her.
"Well, Sylvia, you have beaten me. You fought your fight well, and I bear
you no malice," he said, lightly. "But," and his voice became serious
again, "you sit in judgment on me."
Sylvia raised her eyes quickly.
"No!" she cried.
"I think so," he persisted. "I don't blame you. Only I should like you to
bear this in mind; that you have in your own life a reason to go gently
in your judgments of other people."
Chayne stepped forward, as though he would interfere, but Sylvia laid her
hand upon his arm and checked him.
"I don't think you understand, Hilary," she said, quickly. She turned to
her father and looked straight at him with an eager interest.
"I wonder whether we are both thinking of the same thing," she said,
curiously.
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