The suggestion of her lonely girlhood with its hovering shadow smote him the more deeply because it emphasized the care she had taken to subordinate herself throughout their talk.
"Do you think you could ever be proud of me ?--that you might even care a little, some day ?" he asked, bending over her.
"Oh, if it could be so!" she whispered brokenly, so low that he bent closer to hear.
The room was very still.

Sylvia rose and began drawing on her glove, not looking at him.

She was afraid to risk more; there was, indeed, nothing more to say.

It was for him to make his choice.

He was silent so long that she despaired.