There proved to be "plenty of supper," and soon after it was finished the
guests began to leave, Uncle Mat with many imprecations at Sylvia's "lack
of hospitality in turning them out, such a cold night." Even the two
capable servants, having removed all traces of the feast, came to her
with many expressions of good-will, and the assurance of "comin' back
next season if they was wanted," and departed to take the night train
from Wallacetown for New York. By ten o'clock the white-panelled front
door with its brass knocker had opened and shut for the last time, and
Austin bolted it, and turned to Sylvia, smiling.
"Well, _Mrs. Gray_," he said, "you're locked in now--far from all the
sights and sounds that made your youth happy--shop-windows, and hotel
dining-rooms, the slamming of limousine doors, and the clinking of ice in
cocktail-shakers. Your last chance of escape is gone--you've signed and
sealed your own death-warrant."
"Austin! don't joke--to-night!"
"My dear," he asked, lifting her face in his hands, "did you never joke
because you were afraid--to show how much you really felt?"
"Yes," she replied, "very often.
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