She recalled their early meetings, that first brief contact on the shore of the lake; their talk on the day following the convention when she had laughed at him; that wet evening when they met in the street and he had expressed his interest in Harwood and the hope that she might care for the young lawyer.

With her trained habits of reasoning she rejected this or that bit of testimony as worthless; but even then enough remained to chill her heart.

Her hands were cold as she clasped them together.

Who was Elizabeth?
Ah, who was Sylvia?
The phrase of the song that had brought her to tears that starry night on the lake when Dan Harwood had asked her to marry him smote her again.

Her grandfather's evasion of her questions about her father and mother, and the twinges of heartache she had experienced at college when other girls spoke of their homes, assumed now for the first time a sinister meaning.