"You are not old at all!" she cried. "And you could not be tiresome if you tried! And I am not good to you, as you call it!"
The girl’s young anger made him think of summer lightning, and of the sudden flashing of new steel drawn silently and swiftly from the sheath into the sunshine.
"Goodness may be a matter of opinion, my dear," said he. "But age is a matter of fact. I was fifty-three years old on my last birthday."
"Oh, what do years matter?" Sylvia rose quickly and turned from him, going towards the window.
The colonel watched her perfectly graceful movements. She wore grey, with a small black band at her throat, and the soft light clung to the lovely outline of her figure and to her brown hair. He thought again of the daughter that might have been born to him, and even of a daughter’s daughter. It seemed to him that his own years might be a greater matter than Sylvia would admit. Yet, as their descending mists veiled hope’s height, he was often glad that there should not be as many more as there had been. He said nothing, and there was a dream in his eyes.
"You are always saying that you are old. Why?" Sylvia’s voice came from the window, but she did not turn. "It is not kind," she said, still more softly.
"It is not kind to me. It is as though I did not care. Besides, it is not true!"
Just then the conviction had come back to her voice, stronger than ever, strengthening the tone just when it was breaking. She had never spoken to him in this way. He called her.
"Sylvia! Will you come here, my dear?" She came, and he took her fresh young hands. "What is it? Has anything happened? Are you unhappy? Tell me."
At his question the violet eyes slowly filled, and she just bent her head once or twice, as though assenting.
"You are unhappy?" He repeated his question, and again she nodded sadly.
There was not room for happiness and sorrow together in her full eyes. The tear fell, and gladness took its place at his touch. But he looked, and remembered other hands, and began to know the truth. Love’s unforgotten spirit came, wafting a breath of older days.
He looked, and wondered whom the girl had chosen, and was glad for her happiness while he grew anxious for its life. She was so young that she must have chosen lately and quickly. In a rush of inward questioning his mind ran back through the long journey they had made together, and answers came in many faces of men that glided before him. One of them stopped him and held his thought, as a fleeting memory will. A young officer of her father’s flagship, lean, brown, bright-eyed, with a strong mouth and a rare smile. Sylvia had often talked with him, and the boy’s bright eyes used to watch her from the distance when he was not beside her. Quiet of speech he was, and resolute, bred in the keen air of a northern sea, of the few from among whom fate may choose the one. That was the man.